


Silience

by SirBrian



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Break Up, Crestwood, Cunnilingus, Desk Sex, Dragon Age Quest: Doom Upon All the World, Dragon Age Quest: Protect Clan Lavellan, F/M, Fluff, Goodbyes, Grief/Mourning, Halamshiral, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Internal Monologue, Intimacy, Jaws of Hakkon DLC, Minor Injuries, Nudity, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Female Character, POV Lavellan, POV Male Character, POV Solas, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Break Up, Post-Doom Upon All the World, Post-Game(s), Romance, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Content, Skyhold, Slight Canon Divergence, Smut, The Winter Palace (Dragon Age), Trespasser DLC
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 08:06:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 34
Words: 24,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9428903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SirBrian/pseuds/SirBrian
Summary: silience n. the kind of unnoticed excellence that carries on around you every day unremarkably





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been meaning to write something for one of my inquisitors in a very long time and I finally got round to it!
> 
> Michal (mee-khahl) is my mage Lavellan who I drew here (http://victorssullivan.tumblr.com/post/156036834776) and it's just snippets of moments outside of the gameplay
> 
> I have no beta, so apologies for typos etc.

_traction_

_\- n. the state of being drawn_

Her feet aren’t soft and delicate. The soles are calloused; the skin is marred by little cuts and bruises; tiny divots puncture her heels. She has run barefoot all her life and her feet have hardened.

Haven is unlike anything she has seen before. It is coated in a blanket of snow and the paths are crystallised with ice. The chill kisses her skin and makes the blood rise to the very tips of her ears.

Her feet are still bare. Besides, she doesn’t like the shoes the Inquisition have given her. They’re tight, the leather unbroken. They rubbed against her heels and made them bleed on the first day, so she abandoned them in the corner of her room as if they might atone for their wrongdoing.

Cassandra warns that she will catch frostbite if she doesn’t start wearing her boots. Michal offers the Seeker a coy smile and runs on her way. She has never felt the cold. How could she? It rushes through her veins; entwined and dancing with her mana.

She’s talking with Varric – another exciting tale about Hawke - when she remembers she is late to meet the advisors in the Chantry. She offers him a brief farewell with a wave and a smile before she is gone, past the tavern.

She had not accounted for the paper-thin sheets of ice coating the steps. It is black ice, invisible even under her astute gaze.

Her feet slide out from underneath her. For a fleeting moment the absurd thought passes through her mind that this is the end. She may have survived the Conclave, but falling head first on a pathway will be the death of her.

Her face never impacts with the snow.

Firm, yet gentle, hands catch her narrow waist. She’s vaguely aware of thumbs pressing into her lower ribs and narrow fingers just brushing the dip above her hipbones. The hands pull her upright and she is set right again.

‘ _Ir abelas_ ,’ she breathes.

Her eyes rise to meet the pale blue gaze of Solas. She expects a look of scorn from the _hahren_. She has yet to see him show an ounce of indecency, whereas she has thus for brought chaos in her wake. However, there is a faint smile pulling at the corners of his mouth and a small quirk in his brow that suggested he found the whole ordeal…funny.

‘Careful, _da’len_.’ There is a hint of levity in his tone.

Michal can feel her cheeks warming in embarrassment. She realises she has never been this close to him, almost chest to chest. There is still a slight pressure on her side – his right hand has returned to his side, but his left is still brushing her waist. The contact is tiny, small enough that he can’t have noticed.

She takes a step back, slowly this time. She does not feel that she can put as much faith in her feet now. His hand retreats from her and he clasps both behind his back in his usual fashion.

‘I have to…’ her voice fails her and instead so motions towards the Chantry with a tilt of her head and a sheepish grin.

Solas nods, although that gaze of his never leaves hers. She cannot tell if she would rather be neck deep in snow or close enough to decipher every shade of blue in his irises.

‘Perhaps you should heed Seeker Pentaghast’s words, _da’len_. These paths can be quite dangerous without the appropriate-’ she does not miss the glance he passes at her naked toes ‘- footwear.’

The very tips of her ears are burning and, instead of uttering another word, she darts away like a nervous halla.

When Cassandra watches her pass the next morning, the prints left behind in the snow are the firm outline of well-made leather boots.


	2. Chapter 2

_imprudent_

- _a. not prudent; lacking discretion; incautious; rash._

 

A delicate tension rests over the citizens of Haven.

There is the occasional murmur or hushed whisper, but it’s almost as if they fear one resounding word might reveal the truth. That the Herald is gone. Lost beneath the snow.

Of course she has saved them – they have made camp in the biting tundra of the Frostbacks. They could have moved on. Kept going till they found the next civilization.

Yet here they wait.

In case, by some miracle, Andraste herself might deliver her chosen. That the Herald even know might rise victorious from the surrounding darkness having vanquished the Divine’s murderer.

Solas surveys the supposed faithful.

Although huddled together, their collective unease has emotionally divided them. Some are praying to whoever might be listening, the advisors are trying to devise a plan and some others, so unsure now there is no one to follow, appear to be contemplating the safest route to the nearest city.

His brows are furrowed, his expression contemplative. His mind has wondered to Michal.

She was too impulsive.

Too empathetic.

She had been reckless in her actions. She should have realised she was pivotal to the downfall of Corypheus. That what she could do, what the anchor could do, was far more than anyone else here.

Although, thus far, he had found her selflessness endearing. She was naïve, yes – a quality he put down to her youth – but at the same time there was purity in her actions. She was persistently kind hearted; she never shied away. Her behaviour has been admirable to say the least.

As a whole he had not expected a Dalish elf to be so…progressive. They so easily hid themselves from the grander problems of the world.

He notices the Commander and the Seeker gathering a few men to venture into the mountains.

Solas does not so simply put his faith in people. He has always found spirits dependable. So he watches stoically as the search party departs. And although he cannot be certain if they will be successful or not, he finds himself hoping that when they return Michal will be among them.

He has convinced himself that she is needed, because of the people. Because the force of Corypheus will lay waste to all of Thedas if she doesn’t stop him.

He cannot admit to himself that in fact he needs her, because she gives him a reason to stay. Because her very existence is making him question his isolation.

The Dalish elf that could change the world.

 _His_ world.

*

_déjà senti_

- _n. the phenomenon of having “already felt”_

Mother Giselle gives him permission to examine the Herald. Solas scoffs at her as she leaves the tent; as if she has authority over him or even the skill to help the way he can.

He casts wards to keep out the cold and seats himself on the wooden stool beside her cot.

Hypothermia and exhaustion have set in. Her lips are cracking and blue. The tips of her fingers are frigid. She is still cold enough that the snowflakes are still caught on her eyelashes. There is something ghostly about her prone form that marginally unnerves him. Although, at the same time there is something mesmerising in her stillness; a certain peace in her expression, that can only be captured in sleep.

Solas presses his palm to her brow, focusing on warmth, allowing his mana to course through her.

With his concentration entirely on her, the camp, the people, the mountains around them dissipate. He can only see her, _feel_ her. The warmth returning to her skin; the strengthening of her breath; the pounding of her heart. 

He has been here before; watching, waiting, healing. Lingering for days at her bedside.

This time though, this time…

Solas opens his eyes, notices the pink blush rising in her cheeks. She is not just a tool to save the known world anymore. Not to him. The anchor calls to him. Her spirit calls to him. 

And he, in spite of everything, is allowing it too.


	3. Chapter 3

_nighthawk_

- _n. a recurring though that only seems to strike you late at night_

 

She closes her eyes against the world. Blinks. Once. Twice.

It’s like she can’t shift the weight of the day. The stress of being Inquisitor.

She blinks. Three times. Four times 

Michal opens her eyes to the roaring campfire; the heat is palpable against her skin. An inch closer and the edge of her coat might catch. But she would take that over the endless rain that the submerged rift had drowned Crestwood in.

The cloying scent of petrichor clings to the grass around her. It reminds her of home and for a second her heart yearns to return to her clan. To be oblivious to the state of the world.

Five times. Six times.

A meaty arm nudges her in her ribs. She flinches, even as she turns to Varric.

‘What’s wrong, Moonbeam?’

Michal attempts a smile, but it takes too much effort and she sighs instead. Her fingers twist through the loose strands of her silver hair. It's calming, distracting She knows Varric has worried about her since the beginning; he had made that clear. She appreciates the concern. 

‘Well, when you’re ready to talk, I’ll be right here.’

Michal nods, as the dwarf rises from the bench. Her gaze doesn’t follow where he goes. The fire is blurring the edges of her vision, blotting out everything besides the weaving blades of the flames.

Seven times. Eight times.

She finally looks up beyond the fire, her eyes focusing on the hazy vision of Solas. Her insides clench just at the sight of him. The fire is gently catching the angle of all his features, striking dark shadows across his face. In the dimming light there is a cat-like shine in his downcast eyes. Her chest tightens again. 

She hasn’t been able to shift the _constant_ anxiety. _Fen’Harel ma ghilana_. It is her fault after all.

That kiss. That damn fade kiss.

And he said he would need some time to think. How much longer would she have to wait? What could be taking him so long?

Nine times. Ten times.

Every night this happens. She should tell him to stay at Skyhold, but the distance hurts more than the proximity. So she endures her self inflicted heart ache, holding on to a speck of hope. 

Eleven times…

Enough of this for tonight. Her bed roll calls.

 

 

 

He blinks. Once. Twice.

She has vanished into her tent and there is no further reason to stay by the fire.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you too the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows for creating such beautiful words that I have been and will be using for the titles for the rest of the story


	4. Chapter 4

_lucid_

- _a. easily understood; completely intelligible or comprehensible_

The metal latch of the door clicks shut behind him. The tiniest clink of metal against metal, but to him it is deafening.

He does not even make it down two steps, before he stops to lean against the cold, stone wall. A deep sigh passes his lips. The chill of the brick is not unpleasant against his skull and drives some of the sense back into him.

His head is light – spiralling with thoughts. Emotion fights against logic. He knows he is cruel, selfish, greedy. He is toying with her, using her innocence against her. She cannot see what lies beneath, just behind the pale eyes that she has become so enamoured by.

The beast that he is.

His heart is heavy – anchored by something other than pain. There is longing there now. Desperation to hold her in his arms, press his lips to hers. Or maybe it is not the need he has for her, but something simpler. His heart is not his own anymore. She has ensnared him in a trap he does not wish to be free from. 

Solas pinches the bridge of his nose and the slight pain brings him back to the staircase he is stood on.

He can still hear her, in her quarters, rustling paper on her desk.

If he were a good man he would tell her – tell her that his life is not his own. That she has no business with him. Release her from the heartache that will undoubtedly follow.

His brows draw together. He chastises himself under his breath.

For ever dancing around the idea that he could be something to her. For barely attempting to rebuff her. For every brief glance and coy smile. For _that_ kiss. 

But he thinks of her, even now as she probably sits to write. He can picture the way her silver hair is swept over her shoulder; the slight pinch between her eyebrows as she concentrates; her narrow fingers fumbling with the quill as she tries to write to Josephine’s exacting standards.

And he cannot face her. The great beast unable to face the young elf. It is almost laughable.

_Where has your courage gone, Dread Wolf?_

He will keep her tethered. Tangled amongst his heartstrings.

Because she, despite the flaws she believes she has, is perfect. And he is a desperate man, scrabbling for just a touch of what she possesses.

She will be the one thing unmarred in his heart.

And the only saving grace of his long life.

Solas closes his eyes, tilts his head back and clenches his fists.

_Ir abelas._


	5. Chapter 5

_osculation_

- _n. close contact; in geometry the contact between two osculating curves_

The road from Adamant is long.

Michal can still feel the tendrils of the Fade trying to catch up with her, whispering against the tips of the point ears. She can’t escape it. Not now she knows everything. She could not have imagined how blissful her oblivion had been.

She has been staring at the back of her mount’s head for what feels like an age. The gentle dip and sway of his body moving is tempting her into sleep. Her mind is as numb as her body; demanding rest that she cannot allow it.

Her horse begins to slow and the change in pace is enough to rouse her. Cullen has ordered them to halt, make camp.

Thank the Creators.

She slides from the saddle, almost stumbling on her tired feet. She catches herself on her mount’s reigns, presses her head against the short crop of his coat. His weighty head nuzzles her shoulder gently; breath warm against the side of her face and it is the most affection anyone – or anything – has shown her in what feels like a lifetime.

‘ _Ma serannas_ ,’ she murmurs, stroking a hand through his mane.

Something nudges at her fingers and she thinks it might be her horse, hoping she has something for him. Or perhaps the anchor is flaring up again. She cannot tell what sensation it might bring next. But her horse is being led away by a scout and the anchor is glowing with a faint, dull pulse.

The graceful form of Solas is stood before her.

It is the first time she has seen shadows under his eyes. He is a man who lives to sleep. She has never known him to be physically tired. 

Yet in spite of this, there is a smile on his angled face – a forlorn smile, yes – but still a smile. 

She feels the smallest brush against the back of her hand. Her eyes drops to find his fingers just kissing her skin – a touch that’s barely there, but prominent enough for her to know what he wants.

He weaves his digits round her hand, graces them over her palm and loops them between her own. The gentleness of his fingers becomes firmer and she knows he will not let her go.

His hand is warm against hers. Comforting.

It is the first time he has held her hand. It is the smallest contact of skin against skin, but the intimacy is something so new to her. Something wonderful. As if he had heard her heart longing for closeness.

She sinks into him then, pressing her face into his chest. She has perhaps never been more thankful that he is taller than her.

His other arm wraps around her, hand cupping the back of her head. That's all it takes. She forgets that she must hold herself up. The exhaustion finally conquers her.

Solas senses the oncoming slump in her body. He releases her hand, catching her quickly. There is a muffled _sorry_ against his chest and delicate hands clutching at his back. He huffs. He is too tired to even chuckle. So he strokes the moon-kissed locks of her hair, playing with some of the rogue strands. 

She exhales and it is as if everything her body has held on to and everything that has been dredged up in the Fade leaves her. Her hands, which have clawed against his clothes, begin to ease.

‘You have nothing to apologise for, _ma vhenan_.’

And at his words she is overcome by sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

_the tilt shift_

- _n. the phenomenon in which your lived experience seems oddly inconsequential once you put it down on paper_

 

Lithe fingers skitter over the cracked surface of the rotunda wall.

She trails her pads across the hardened paint and plaster, following the curve of a wolf’s tail, tracing the wing of the griffon on the Grey Warden shield. The most recent portion has yet to be finished; half of the section he has sketched out is still un-painted.

Michal sweeps her eyes over the half of the rotunda that is complete.

She has admired every addition to the fresco since Solas started it. There is something enrapturing about his work. Maybe it’s the warm, ambient lighting of the rotunda casting soft shadows across the walls. Or the fact it depicts her life as Inquisitor. She never imagined she would ever be of enough eminence to have anyone paint her story or record her actions in texts.

Or perhaps it is because of _who_ has painted it.

Michal lifts her eyes to the highest reaches of the walls, where the dark silhouette of Corypheus is currently looming over her. The haunting effigy of the creature that wants her dead. It is a stark reminder of what lies in wait and she cannot help the chill that runs from her shoulders all the way to the tail of her spine.

In the quiet moments when she is here – or even writing her reports and reading those written by others – she wonders if this is all that will remain. That eventually, far off in the future, long after she has passed and the Inquisition is over, if this is all that people will see. If they will make judgement of her actions, purely based on paintings and words.

What will they think of her? As it is she can only hope and pray that she is making the world a better place.

The shadow is watching her. Taunting her.

She drops her gaze quickly.

‘What do you think?’

Her ears twitch at the soft tone of Solas’ voice. She turns her head just a fraction to find him at the base of the stairs. He is partially shadowed by the stone archway, but she can still see the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

She can still see the silhouette out of the corner of her eyes, but it is nothing more than paint again. 

‘It…’ she considers her words. He has never asked her opinion of his work before. ‘It is masterful.’

Her attention returns to the work, as he approaches with near inaudible steps.

His eyes are fixed on her expression; the fascinated glint in her light eyes, the minute parting between her lips…and the way the tips of her ears are turning a dashing shade of pink. She knows he is watching her.

Michal toys with the end of her index finger and brings her bottom lip in with her teeth.

‘Is something on your mind, _vhenan_?’ His voice is sincere.

So she lets her lips part again to reply. She has become nervous at times. Their relationship is still new to her. There are so many things she has yet to explore and experience with him. She considers telling him all her doubts and worries. Asking him what she should do. He has lived longer than her; knows more of the world than her. She reconsiders how she will answer.

She does not want to speak of the Inquisition now.

‘Could I stay here while you paint?’ she cannot will herself to speak much higher than a whisper.  

A broad smile breaks out across his face, the corners of his eyes wrinkling. 

‘You do not need to ask,’ a lilt of humour in his tone.

Her body eases and she is about to take up a seat, but his hand catches her wrist and pulls her back. Gentle lips press to her brow, right in the middle of her _vallaslin,_ and a soft sigh passes her lips. 

When she catches his eyes again, they are full of warmth.

She does not need to concern herself with how those of the future might view her. Their opinion will mean nothing to her. And they will never know of the intricacies of her life, how it _really_ was.

Besides, she would not want them to.


	7. Chapter 7

_lustrous_

- _a. brilliant; splendid; resplendent; illustrious_

There is not much in the real world that astounds him anymore.

He has seen most of what this realm has to offer. Not to say that he is not excited by life anymore. The Winter Palace is dangerous, provocative. The Orlesians are the epitome of hedonism and it is fascinating to be on the periphery of that. However, he has witnessed all this before.

It isn’t _new_.

The crowd has quietened around the main entrance to the ballroom and Solas in turn finds his attention drawn to the hush.

A harness of stars cascades over rich purple fabric, as if the night sky had been captured in a dress. The body within is delicate but awkward, uncomfortable in the uncommon attire. Silver hair is pinned up, but tendrils still trickle down, like streams of moonlight. She is resplendent. 

Michal is smiling, even as she teeters on the high heels Lady Vivienne has no doubt put her in. Solas can tell that this entire outfit has been influenced by the Circle mage. He must thank her when they return to Skyhold.

He traipses on the side-lines, surveying her as she interacts with the nobles who are all now so forward in their praise.

‘ _Jewels are tight against skin, suffocating. Too much like chains._ ’

Solas’ brow furrows at Cole’s words and he turns his head enough to see the boy at his side. He has noticed him flickering around the party, watching silently. The interruption allows him to collect himself; his lips have fallen open in a manner undignified for the Inquisitor's so called "Elven servant".

‘ _She does not want their eyes on her. So many eyes. Watching. Judging._ ’

The spirit looks at the elf under the wide brim of his hat, through straggly locks of wheat-blonde hair.

‘ _She only wishes for your eyes._ ’

*

_ataraxia_

- _n. a state of freedom from emotional disturbance and anxiety; tranquillity_

He finds her on the balcony.

She is gently swirling the wine around in her glass, taking intermittent sips. Her ears prick as he approaches. The adornments on her dress glimmer, as she spins to face him. 

Her smile is luminescent. Her hair slightly more tousled. Her lips stained red from drink.

_Oh, but those lips._

She has a hand on him first, a palm against his chest. The warmth from her body radiates through his uniform. She leans in closer, spurred on by alcohol. His focus is distracted for a second when he realises she has decreased in height by a few inches. A quick glance to the floor confirms his theory; her feet are bare beneath her dress. 

There is a potent mix of wine and perfume clutching to her skin.

The scent beckons him and he cannot resist. 

His lips find hers. He kisses the wine from her mouth, savouring the last remnants of it on his tongue. She clings to him in a way she has not done before, whimpers quietly at the contact. He holds her firm against him, one hand sinking to her lower back. Not a breath could pass through them.

He forgets his woes in her arms, because in that instant what could be more important than her.

 

*

_flashover_

- _n. the moment a conversation becomes real and alive, occurs when a spark of trust shorts out the delicate circuits you keep insulated_

 

She has waited for an audience with him.

Too much has come in the way of him this evening. Cole had kept her company amongst the crowds; a welcome comfort when every noble was bombarding her.

So when they are finally alone, she grasps him like a woman starved.

The wine has gone to her head. She really should not have drunk so much. Although without it she knows she would have never been so forward. She has never felt him against her with such force.

He keeps her smaller form flush against his, pushing against her while pulling her in. She would will him to go further if they were not in public. Never has she felt someone bestow such passion.

Lips against lips. Hands against hips; in her hair. Tugging her. Caressing her.

She can feel his body, yes. But there is something more. The start of one spirit outpouring into another. It is a mere taste of what he could do.

And when they break apart it is no longer the wine making her dizzy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the dress I pictured Michal in http://victorssullivan.tumblr.com/post/137012921311/


	8. Chapter 8

_cede_

- _v. to yield or formally surrender to another_

 

Somehow, no one notices the two figures leaving the party. 

Her fingers are weaved through his, the tiniest contact making her senses hum and skin tingle.

They ascend gilded steps, under grand archways. Her feet are still bare, quietly padding along the tiled floors. She is unaware of how cold the ground is or the direction they are heading. She is only conscious of the man drawing her along. The magnetic pull he still has over her.

A door opens before her and closes once she is through. The room is dark. Silent.

Everything is so quiet now. No crowd. No music. Not even the anchor is crackling in her palm. 

There is only the thrum of her pulse.

He feels it as his fingers run up her wrist and her pulls her into him. She leans in, breaching the final inch of space between them. The seed of apprehension, which had been planted on their escape from the party, is quickly choked by his lips. Her mouth is already tender and she whimpers as his teeth tug at her bottom lip.

He is careful with her; testing his boundaries piece by piece.

A kiss on the edge of her mouth, the line of her jaw, her throat. Hands trace over her bare shoulders, down her sides, landing on her hips. His hips roll against hers and she can feel him through the fabric.

Her head lolls back, as he begins to acquaint himself with her body. Those clever fingers, that can manipulate the power of rifts, make easy work of her dresses many fastenings. It shimmers as it slides from her petite form, like a cascade of stars in the night. He steps back marginally, although his hands remain firmly planted on her body. There is only the faintest slither of moonlight trying to pry its way through drawn curtains. It catches the outline of his features only reminding her how handsome he is. His pale eyes are practically shining in the dark.

She can see those same eyes passing over her body and the curve of his mouth as he smiles. It is not like any expression she has seen on his face before. Yes, there is appreciation, maybe even adoration. But the glint in his eyes suggests hunger and need. 

A thrilling new side to him.

The transition from standing upright to being laid back on the bed is a blur, but she is suddenly very aware of _him_. 

Against her back is the silken brush of expensive sheets. Against her front palpable heat. He has stripped the uniform. All that remains is him. 

His body is limber like hers, but hard where hers is soft and broad where she is narrow. 

She runs her fingers across his chest, feeling his muscles tremble beneath his pale skin. She realises this is the first time she has seen him fully bare, the first time she can appreciate everything about him. When her gaze returns to his face, there is a flicker of trepidation in his eyes. She captures his head between her hands and draws his mouth against hers; kisses him as if that might wipe away any hesitation.

Everything is new to her. The touch of his fingers against her, _in_ her. She forgets coherent language. Something is coiling deep in her stomach, like the surge of mana that comes before a spell. It continues to grow, and grow, until it is the only thing she can feel besides his digits working her.

And just when she is almost consumed by it, hips rising from the bed and back arched…

His fingers are gone. The coil loosens, but residual pressure remains. She is left panting.

She gazes at him through a haze, as he lifts her leg and hooks it over his hip. She is grateful when he kisses her as he enters her, as she does not doubt that someone would have heard her drawn out moan.

He is her undoing.

The friction of his chest against hers. The jolt of his body every time he hilts himself. Every kiss and nip and breath against her sensitive skin. The sound of flesh against flesh. Gasps, moans, whimpers.

He curses in Elven; breath hot against the pointed shell of her ear.

The coil is tighter than before, almost painful. Then his fingers return, slipping between their slick bodies and pressing into her core.

Ecstasy tears through her and erupts through every fibre of her body. She forgets the world, everything and anything that is not him. His name is a sharp plea on her lips; begging him to never part from her.

Nothing quite feels real anymore. She is aware of him moving, pressing his face into the curve of her shoulder. His body stutters and something Elven is groaned against her throat. He empties himself inside her, stilling only once he has nothing left to give.

Reticence blankets them. Their mingled breathing steadies, as the sweat on their bodies cools.

She is more aware of the weight of his body now. He’s losing the strength to support himself, his muscles beginning to tremor from the effort. He rests his brow against hers, the smooth bridge of his nose flattening along hers.

He presses one final kiss to her bruised lips. He is gentler now. Reverent.

This, she thinks, this is how she would want to stay. Tangled in this moment, exposed yet safe. Just being held. Knowing that she is his alone.

 _"Ar lath,_ Solas."

 _"Ar lath,_ Michal."


	9. Chapter 9

_ecstatic shock_

- _n. the surge of energy upon catching a glance from someone you like_

 

Solas can feel the fine streaks of sunlight poking through the curtains. The tendrils of light are warming the skin of his cheeks and teasing him to open his eyes.

He rolls on to his side, pressing his face into the downy Orlesian pillows.

He runs a hand out across the mattress, fingers searching carefully for their target. The come across the smooth skin of Michal’s arm. Knowing she is still beside him, he finally opens his eyes, parting them slowly as they adjust to the morning glow in the room.

She has her back to him. In the light he can see criss-crosses of tiny scars all over her brown skin and the tangled locks of metallic hair. 

His fingers glide up, over the curve and dip of her shoulder, until he is toying with the strands of hair at the base of her neck. He can feel the skin prickling under his touch and she sighs. 

‘ _Aneth ara_ ,’ he breathes.

Michal hums a vague response.

He cannot tell if she is, in fact, still sleeping. He moves forward, placing a soft kiss on the _vallaslin_ that curls up her back. Her entire body seems to relax into the bed, so he continues. Another kiss to the peak of her shoulder.

A delicate hand reaches for his, drawing his arm around her waist. She presses the length of her back against his chest, savouring the warmth radiating from his body.

Solas pauses, his lips just brushing the skin of her upper arm, a devious smirk spreading across his face. He withdraws the hand she has been clasping - earning him a disappointed whine -  to trace it down her side, over the bump of her ribs and she responds with a sharp intake of breath. His brow quirks upwards. He had no idea she was ticklish.

He moves slowly at first, as if he might kiss the skin above the angled jut of her hip. Her breathing is even, her body calm. And just as Michal has become comfortable once more... 

Solas places his open mouth against her soft skin and blows hard.

She yelps, hurling body so hard she almost tumbles from the bed. Only her cat-like grip on the sheets keeps her from hitting the floor. She turns on Solas with fire and betrayal in her eyes, but he is laughing.

And when his chuckling subsides, his face sets itself with the smuggest grin she thinks she has ever seen grace his features.

‘Fen’Harel take you,’ she grumbles. she would have expected something like that from Sera but not from him. She had been enjoying the gentle caresses and kisses. Never had she been woken up by the loving attention of another.

She really wants to stay angry, yet that damn smile of his is too contagious. Michal starts to giggle, a short trill that has Solas’ heart warming. 

Her features illuminate when she smiles, the edges of her eyes creasing, the scar on the side of her face pinching. She is perhaps more beautiful now, face bare and eyes glittering, than she was last night. 

He has to kiss her just for that.

She forgets his misdeed at the touch of his lips and the pair sink back into the sheets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 7/2/17: I re-read this the morning after I posted and edited it. Never post when tired...


	10. Chapter 10

_affinity_

- _n. a natural liking for or attraction to a person; in chemistry, the force by which atoms are held together_

 

She vanishes for a long time when they return to Skyhold.

The advisors require her attention – there is much to discuss after Halamshiral. Then there are nobles. Then her other companions. And it goes on and on.

Then finally, _finally_ , she seeks him out.

He is bent over his desk, eyes scanning the tome before him. It is already late, the candles are dimming and the voices in the library above are diminishing as people leave for their quarters or the tavern.

Loving arms wrap around his waist and the smaller form of Michal presses against his back. He cages her hands beneath his, tracing his lithe fingers over her knuckles. She is a most welcome presence in the quiet of the rotunda and he wants to keep her beside him as long as he can.

She moves upwards, as far as her toes will allow. He feels the breath against the back of his ear, the sensitive skin tingling, before warm lips find the skin just below the lobe.

A spike of heat rushes up his spine, culminating in a very audible sigh.

The mouth against his neck smiles and her voice whispers, ‘ _Garas_.’

And that is how he finds himself in her quarters. She is more confident this time, for she has pinned him down to the bed. Her mouth is latched on to his throat, nipping and sucking.

When her teeth catch his Adam’s apple and he can’t stop his head falling back, as he groans. The little portion of his brain that is still functioning coherently wants to ask her where she has picked up this newfound forwardness. Then she suddenly bites the sharp tip of his ear and everything that is not the feel of her body is forgotten.

He catches her waist and with so little effort reverses their positions.

She is glorious to behold in the deep glow from the setting sun; hair almost warm gold rather than cold silver.

He holds her jaw between his thumb and forefinger, turns her head so that he can greedily bite her smooth, brown skin. She gasps and sighs, begging for him to keep going under her breath.

She parts her legs, allows him to fit perfectly against her. He whispers in her ear. It is all broken Elven and phrases in the common tongue that has her blushing to the tips of her ears.

Michal’s fingers dig sharply into the flesh of his back, scraping over the planes of his shoulders. Solas growls in her ear. Her touch is electric, goading him to go further. So he gives in to it, forgets his so carefully placed restraint.

By the time they are both naked, skin damp with sweat, he has her screaming his name. He could not imagine a more beautiful sight; her hair splayed out in all directions, her lips swollen from his kisses, her back arched and head thrown back.

He comes with a low groan, the sound rumbling up from deep within in. Their chests are heaving in unison, limbs growing tired.

Her nails are still cutting into his back, as if he is the only thing holding her to this world. His back aches from her harsh embrace and he knows she will apologise for days if she has scarred him.

But he does not care.

He would willingly let her mark him as hers, for he wants no other in this world.


	11. Chapter 11

_katzenjammer_

_-n. the discomfort and illness experienced as the aftereffects of excessive drinking. uneasiness; anguish; distress_

Michal had never liked the tavern before. There was too much noise; the chattering, the clanking of tankards. It was deafening. She would dart through on her way to see Sera or Bull; even going as far to occasionally take the route along the battlements to visit Cole. 

However, Sera had rather forcibly coerced Michal into joining her that evening, along with a cluster of her other companions.

She worries people are watching her – she is not oblivious to the fact everyone has an opinion. But the more she drinks, the more she becomes numb to the other customers, as if she has nugskin plugged in her ears. She is only aware of Sera and Bull making bawdy jokes, Dorian judging the wine he is consuming by the minute and Varric reciting another tale.

She can’t quite tell if she is concentrating anymore – something about the Captain of the Guard and a bronze – or was it copper? – marigold.

Her skin feels warm all over, tingling even. Not in the same way it does when Solas touches her. It is as if the atoms in her body are buzzing, yet deadened at the same time. And her throat is still burning from the residual bite of the alcohol. She can’t remember the last time she drank so much.

‘Oi! Quizzy!’ Sera playfully nudges her in her ribs, almost toppling Michal’s small frame on the wooden bench. ‘You an’ old’ droopy-ears been at it lately?’ 

Michal squeaks in surprise. Sera is hardly quiet and suddenly all her companions have their attention focused on her.

‘Oh yes! Our dear Inquisitor and resident elven apostate have been quite enraptured with each other,’ Dorian smirks, leaning in, chin supported in his palm.

‘Dorian!’ Michal wants to crawl under the table. The second best she can do is finish the tankard in front of her and hope she passes out from the drink.

‘Bet he calls out “Elven glory” when he does it.’ Sera snorts, accompanied quickly by Bull’s rumbling laugh. The Qunari throws his head back, slapping his hand down on his muscular thigh.

‘Come on, Buttercup,’ Varric chimes in and Michal thinks her might be her saving grace amongst the group. ‘Ask the important questions, I need a new book idea.’

There is a furious heat spreading under her collar now, crawling all the way to the tips of her ears. She places her head in her hands, covering the red in her cheeks, only attracting more laughing and snickering.

‘The veil is horny here,’ Sera says, prodding her friend in the shoulder.

Michal gently shoves her back, nose scrunching up as she pouts. Amongst all the teasing, she hasn’t noticed that another round has drinks has been laid out on the table. She hastily reaches for the one closest.

‘No need to be bashful, Inquisitor,’ Dorian drawls. ‘From what I’ve heard in the rotunda you’re hardly the shy and retiring type.’

Michal nearly spits her drink all over the mage. ‘Please, stop,’ she groans. The Tevinter mage only passes her a smug grin back, twirling the upturned end of his moustache between his fingers. Then his gaze is distracted by something else and his brow quirks upwards.

‘Good evening.’

Her ears prick at the even voice behind them. All eyes turn in its direction, so she looks over her shoulder. Solas is stood behind her; all ramrod back, hands clasped behind him and head slightly cocked.

‘Y’all right, “Elven Glory”,’ Sera chortles, causing her and Bull to fall into another fit of laughter. Solas brow furrows at the name. 

Michal hopes he can see the silent plea in her eyes for him to save her. It appears he does, as he holds his hand out for her. She gratefully takes it, gripping tighter than usual as the alcohol throws her off balance. The ground is starting to spin beneath her, or maybe its her head. She can't tell.

‘Excuse us,’ he declares, ‘but the Inquisitor and I have plans for the evening,’

‘Naked plans, yeah?’ Sera beams.

Michal starts to shuffle quietly behind him, fingers gently grasping the sleeve of his tunic. Much to her surprise there is a coy smirk on his lips, as he moves to leave the tavern alongside her.

‘At least _I_ will be going to bed with a beautiful woman, Sera.’

He departs, holding Michal closely at his side. She is gripping his waist, treading carefully on wobbly feet and giggling under her breath. The smile that was tugging on his mouth has turned into a full face of self-satisfaction.

She can hear the bellowing laughter of her companions, now at Sera’s expanse and her final indignant shout.

‘Stick it up ya’ arse, Solas!’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies that the updates have not been so frequent, but I've had fewer days off work


	12. Chapter 12

_empyreal_

_-n. pertaining to the sky; celestial; formed of pure fire or light_

He was accustomed to falling asleep at his desk, or even on the oversized sofa at the side of the rotunda. He had no need for lavish beds when sleep came so easily to him. 

However, he could not deny that waking up in the ornate Orlesian bed, that his love had been gifted with by the Empress, was far more pleasant than rousing alone in the rotunda.

The sheets have slipped down his body in the night, allowing the first breeze of the morning to whisper against his bare chest. He draws the fabric back up and over his shoulders, rolling on to his side to face Michal.

He opens his eyes, parts his lips to tell her good morning. She isn’t beside him.

There is still a curved indent where her petite form had been.

Then, the sound of soft humming catches his ears; so quiet it would be drowned out by any other noise.

He pulls himself up, leaning back against the soft pillows and the gold filigree headboard. The morning sun is streaming in through the open doors, casting criss-cross shadows from stained glass and metal. Gold flakes of dustlight flicker in the light, floating into the room.

And in the glimmer of the particles she stands.

She is still in the cropped vest and soft leggings she wears to bed, silver hair tousled and swept out of her face. The bold light entering the room cuts through the light fabric of her vest, outlining her small breasts and jut of her ribs. She stretches in the frame of the door, back turned to him as she surveys the mountains. Her satisfied sigh causes a break in her humming, but she continues once more. The sun catches the edges of her body, as she arches, illuminating her skin and hair.

It is as if she is the one shining.

He watches her, transfixed on the silhouette of her figure effortlessly moving. Her narrow fingers weave into her own hair. She combs them through, drawing waves of metallic locks over her shoulder. She is so delicate. So reticent. So unaware.

He is no longer content to watch her.

He pushes back the covers, as quietly as he can. Part of him doesn’t want to break the calm state she is in. Oh, he would capture her this way in paint if he could; to hold this image in his memory forever.

And yet, he treads towards her, silently, until she is within arms reach.

He presses a tentative hand to her hip, trying not to startle her. There is a second where she flinches, until she realises it is only him. Even her pale eyes have turned luminescent in the morning glow.

He draws her in at her waist. The sun has begun to warm her skin. He embraces her, the flat of his palms gliding up, under her vest, against her bare back. He kisses her, feeling the same warmth on her lips. Her arms wrap around his neck, holding him close, exactly where he wants to be.

Eventually they part, still close enough that he can feel her breath on his lips and the tingle of magic under her skin.

‘Good morning,’ she murmurs, affection sparkling in her eyes.

‘Indeed it is, _vhenan_.’


	13. Chapter 13

_mansuetude_

_-n. mildness; gentleness_  

 

There is a bath waiting for her when she arrives in her quarters that evening. Inviting hot water, with wisps of steam rising and dissipating gently above it. The heat that wafts around the room is laced with floral hints of Orlesian oils.

Solas is sitting at her desk, fingers toying with the edge of the page he is about to turn. He passes her that wonderfully crooked smile of his, the one that creases the corners of his eyes.

He knows her day has been wearisome, can probably see it in the stoop of her posture and the way she’s dragging her feet. The bath is his doing and, Creators, if her heart doesn’t swell at the consideration he always shows her.

He plans to continue reading while she bathes – he has become quite content being in her company while she is in her quarters - but she refuses to pass up this opportunity. In a quiet voice she asks him to join her. She thinks he might hesitate, but he doesn’t. The book is closed.

He strips down efficiently, tunic, undershirt and then leggings. Michal thinks she will never tire of watching his muscles flex under his pale skin.

The copper tub is slightly too small for him, so his knees are poking out of the water. Michal undoes the many fastenings of her shirt. Her clothes are not as easy to remove, but finally she manages, throwing everything in a heap.

She sinks down into the water, fitting herself snuggly between his legs. She has to be careful not to slosh any water over the edges. The bath feels so much better than she could have imagined, especially when the heat of his body encompassing hers and the lit fire accompanies it. 

In the confines of the tub she sits with her knees tucked together, arms wrapped around them. He scoops her hair to one side, presses a gentle kiss to the nape of her neck. Her shoulders ease, as if his lips hold the magic to heal her muscles.

She angles her body as well as she can, catching his jaw with her hand. She responds with her own kiss, just grazing his top lip.

If she weren’t so tired she imagines there would be many sordid things they could achieve in this bath. As it is, she does not want that right now though. She only wants the affection and the comfort.

She savours these moments, in the still of this mountain fortress. The peace at the end of the day. She hopes that after Corypheus is defeated, there will be many more evenings such as this, when the threat of the world ending isn’t looming over them.

Michal smiles at him briefly, cheeks rosy from the heat and bottom lip sucked in. His features lift with a beam of his own and, satisfied, she returns to her original position, shimmying slightly to press closer to him.

He wraps her up in his arms, keeping her close, keeping her warm.

‘ _Hamin_ ,’ he breathes.

She doesn’t need to be told twice.


	14. Chapter 14

_opia_

_-n. the ambiguous intensity of looking someone in the eye, which can feel simultaneously invasive and vulnerable_

Never has he so quickly pulled her along after him. She is walking through the arched corridor into the rotunda, when he grabs her by the waist, fingers already tugging insistently at her shirt.

She giggles at first, surprised by his forwardness. Surely he would not be so unrestrained as to continue any physical act in the rotunda. Then she sees the persistence in his gaze and it is clear she is wrong.

She should tell him that this is ridiculous. That anyone could pass by. Anyone above could hear. Yes, it is late, but she knows that many of Leliana’s agents are nocturnal in nature.

She is about to ask him what has come over him, but she is expertly silenced by demanding kisses. The scent of the forest that perpetually clings to his skin is enough for her to forget her surroundings. She clutches to him as fiercely as he does to her.

He hoists her up, hands wrapped under her thighs, guiding her legs around his waist. 

She feels, rather than sees, him walk them backwards. Their mouths are still interlocked, the kisses becoming more interrupted by teeth and tongue with the passing seconds.

Then her back is pressing against the tense fabric of the rotunda’s oversized sofa. The chair creaks dully from their combined weight.

He is already slotted perfectly between her legs. She can feel him through his trousers. The uncontrolled physical want. 

Shirts and tunics are discarded. Bare skin rasps against each other. Hands try to grab at rolling muscles. Calloused palms cup her breasts, briefly gliding over her nipples and she is thankful his mouth is there to mute whatever sounds she might make. 

Those wandering hands skim over her ribs, tease the sensitive, soft skin above her hips and search out the ties of her trousers. She whimpers when his body moves away from hers, the cool air of the rotunda suddenly very noticeable against her burning skin.

He isn’t looking at her. His eyes are fixed on her trousers, as he draws them down the length of her legs, revealing brown skin inch by inch. His fingers leave goose flesh in their wake.

He spreads her legs, hands trailing up the insides of her thighs. Her body is already trembling with anticipation. She knows what he can do with those fingers of his; what she can expect to come next.

But he does not touch her.

Not just yet.

‘Quiet _, vhenan_.’

Then that mouth – that expert mouth that can cast spells in a whisper – is between her legs. She doesn’t know whether to scream or sob. She scrambles for something to grab, her back arching off the sofa, head thrown back as far as it will go. She’s struggling to catch her breath already and he’s barely done anything.

All she can feel is hot breath and wet tongue. Sucking, stroking, licking.

His hand presses against the planes of her stomach to still her. When she glances down, just to catch a glimpse of the man who is driving her to abandon, he is already staring back.

She cannot look away. Those pupils that are normally so bright have turned dark with hunger. It as if he could see her soul with those eyes. She is laid bare to him in every way.

Yet, in the same way she is the only one who can see him. No one else will ever see this side of him.

The side that craves.

His fingers join his mouth. She can’t take it any longer. She has been biting her lip almost painfully. She wants to cry out at the top of her longs, in wild abandon, not caring who might hear.

It starts as a quiet whimper, the smallest noise every time his fingers reach the electric spot in the deepest part of her. Soon she is letting out breathy whines, her thighs tightening against his head.

And eventually his words are forgotten.

She cannot – will not – contain the fervour that is erupting from her body. She moans his name, voice choked, eyes clenched shut and watering, nails almost tearing into the fabric beneath her.

Everything physical feels so distant from her now. She has fully succumbed to the sensations rippling through her tiny body.

She is brought back to the world by the faintest sound of crows cawing high above.

Michal opens her eyes, to be greeted by Solas’ beautifully angled features. Those eyes, which are still dark pits, ringed by a fine line of blue, look back. The ferocity in them has been quenched somewhat, but she knows he is not finished. 

Whatever has driven him to this state is still willing him to go further.

She wants it. Whatever he will give or take.

All of it and all of him. No matter who hears.


	15. Chapter 15

_kuebiko_

- _n. a state of exhaustion inspired by acts of senseless violence_

She has never felt like her brain and body are so disconnected from one another.

The pungent smell of rich wine is still clinging to everything. The thrumming of the oncoming headache is already vibrating the base of her skull. She cannot remember much of the tavern. Just the many, _many_ bottles of wine, which Cabot eventually refused to serve her.

She nuzzles her pillow that has turned uncomfortably damp from the salty water that refuses to dry. She can’t bring herself to reach for another pillow, let alone turn this one over on to the dry side.

It would make no difference; it would soon be wet again.

The noise of the tavern had offered a welcome distraction, but in the stillness of her own quarters she was only left with herself. The only voice she has to listen to is the one in her head, reminding her that she is failing miserably.

She shouldn’t be making decisions that could impact the state of Thedas. She should be in some forest in the North, wonderfully oblivious to all the _fenedhis_ of the _shemlen_ world.

All they do is cause trouble. For each other. For mages. For elves. For _her_.

The sun is already coming down from its midday peak, on its way to begin sinking behind the mountains and cast long shadows across the bedroom. Has so much of the day passed by already? She had only been with Dorian a few hours ago.

Surely…?

Her knuckles are sore. The muscles have stiffened and even the slightest flex of her fingers is enough to make her wince. Where she has rubbed them, they have started to bleed again and the slow trickles of red are staining her bedding.

Yet another reason for her to climb out of this bed. Strip the sheets. Scrub herself from head to toe. Cast a spell to heal her wounds and bind her hands.

 _Banal_.

She rolls over instead. Wraps herself tighter in the sheets. Closes her eyes firmly against the light that is trying to keep her awake.

She will forget about the world in here.

And, if she is lucky, the world will forget about her.

* 

Solas had never been so determined on his journey to Michal’s quarters. His feet are carrying him at furious pace, through the main hall, up the ridiculous flights of stairs that lead to the sky-high room.

He knew the information that had come out of the war room, yesterday afternoon. The entirety of Skyhold knew at this point. And he had been inclined to allow Michal her space. He did not want to seem overbearing.

But then Dorian had left him a note no more than ten minutes ago, tucked into the pages of a book he had borrowed some weeks before. It was brief, a single sentence explaining Michal's scarred knuckles and uncharacteristic behaviour. 

That had been enough to have him discard all immediate plans he had made for the afternoon. 

He is in half a mind to barge into the room, without preamble. To seek her out without consideration for the state she might be in.

However, on the final step, his entire body holds itself. His tread becomes light. The pent up tension of his body releases. The only thing that stays is the weight in his chest, his heart thudding aggressively behind his ribs.

The room is warm, the doors closed to the elements for once. And without the sounds of the inhabitants of Skyhold below, the room is hauntingly quiet.

Scattered papers, accompanied by spilt ink and a broken quill. An overturned chair. Broken glass, with red coated edges. The offensive smell of alcohol. All signs of a person in anguish. 

Something shuffles to the side of the room.

He approaches. It can only be Michal moving about, yet he is still unsure of what will greet him. And, the moment his eyes fall on her, his heart breaks. How could it not at the sight of his love so defeated on the floor, clinging to her own legs like a child in the dark. 

She is his heart and if she is broken, then so is he.

 _Oh, ma vhenan._  

* 

She never hears him enter. Never hears him approach. Never hears the breathy words that leave his lips.

Only when she feels him - right there, hand on her head, so gently weaving into her tangled locks – does she realise she is no longer alone. The suffocating weight of the silence around her dies, as his comforting figure appears beside her.

For a long time she continues to sit hunched in on herself, bottom lip trembling and eyes staring blankly at the floor. She wrings her hands together, reigniting the pain of her self inflicted injuries. 

Firm hands catch her wrists, wrench them away from her. ' _Venavis._ 'Solas is angry - no, troubled - she can see it in his eyes. Yet she knows it is not at her. It is for what she has done to herself.  

Then she can’t hold anything back anymore.

The exhaustion, sadness, the pain, the murderous ache of her own heart, it all comes crashing down at once. She collapses with it. Straight into his arms. Arms that catch her with a strength she no longer possesses. 

She wails, and screams, and sobs.

She calls out to the Creators, to the Maker, to anyone that might offer her some relief. Then she gives up on calling to the heavens, because why would they heed her cries, when they have refused to save her clan. 

So, instead, she focuses on the physical body holding her. The Elven words which are trying to speak to her damaged soul. The steady heartbeat she can hear through the chest her head rests on.

‘ _Ma halani, Solas. Ir souveri._ ’ Her voice is so quiet. So weak.

‘ _Ir abelas, ma’arlath_ ,’ comes the equally quiet reply. ‘ _Ir abelas_ , I cannot take away your pain. But I will help you endure.’

For now, she thinks, that is enough.


	16. Chapter 16

_klexos_

_-n. the art of dwelling on the past_

She is only shoulder high to a halla when she casts her first spell.

The frost had settled as far as she could see around the camp, covering everything in sight and leaving the forest in an almost ethereal white blanket.

She is kicking the snow up with her feet, skimming her toes across the frozen ground, combing her fingers through the snowflakes that are beginning to fall once more. Then, as she is twisting her wrist, something sparks and crackles on her finger tips.

A flash of white bursts forth and ricochets through the trees. She doesn’t know how she has managed it, doesn’t know if she can do it again. So she runs to the Keeper.

Keeper Istimaethoriel is so excited, enraptured by this child who is recounting her first signs of magic.

It is the first time Michal remembers feeling needed.

* 

She is now the Keeper’s first.

Not a title she ever thought she would gain and certainly not a title she ever wanted. Yet she bears it with tacit compliance.

A title means she will be noticed. She does not want to be. She wishes to be unseen, unheard. To enjoy her solace and the calm that comes with it.

Fate has decided that that will be a path she can longer take. 

* 

When she is not honing her skills with the Keeper, she prefers the company of the halla.

They are quiet creatures. Graceful in every way. They can not look at her with judgemental eyes.

Sometimes she thinks that just maybe they recognise her _vallaslin_ as honouring their mother.

The Keeper often watches Michal as she sits amongst the animals. With other elves they are skittish, darting away from reaching hands and raised voices. But beside the young mage they are affectionate; they sit with her, nestle against her.

In that way Michal was akin to the halla. They are gentle, such as she. 

* 

Michal holds her tongue most days.

Near nineteen years have paced since her birth. Today is a day as cold as the one she was born into. 

She can hear the voices, venomous whispers from the aravel behind her. Those voices that would see a seed of doubt planted in her heart and water it until its vines were crippling. 

They do not know that all they do is feed her growing want for change.

She will not act with harsh retorts and bitter words. She will work to make herself grow into the elf she wants to be. She will prove them wrong. She will show them a new way. 

*

She has barely seen anything of the world beyond her clan, so when the Keeper tells her that she has been chosen to observe the Conclave, Michal cannot contain the flood of emotions that erupt from her small form. 

The Keeper’s choice does not go unchallenged; some say she is too young, too inexperienced, too vulnerable.

The doubters are silenced.

Michal is sent on her way.

She thinks she will return soon. Watch the meeting of the _Shemlens_ , then come back with her findings. She can once again sit amongst the halla, train her mind and body in all the Keeper has to show and then, one day, take over from what Istimaethoriel will leave her.

She thinks of the girl who was always so content in her isolation.

She looks at the young woman who is now venturing out alone for the sake of the clan. 

The Creators certainly have a sense of humour. 

* 

She wakes to a room christened in moonlight. 

She is in her bed that she does not remember climbing into. Her hands are bound in cloth she does not recall wrapping. Her cheeks are damp again with tears she has shed in her sleep. 

She clenches her eyes shut, bites her own lip hard to prevent the sobs that want to crawl out of her throat again. 

The Creators are cruel, she thinks. 

For all the times she told herself she preferred her own company. For all the times she found joy alone. It seems the gods gave her exactly what her heart desired. The Keeper, the halla, the few she may have called friends. All gone.

She has been granted her wish in the vilest way.

She can feel the tears threatening to spill from the corners of her eyes again. Her heart is beginning to ache once more. Then an arm is weaving its way round her waist, pale fingers threading through her own, a warm body completely enveloping hers.

She releases her lip with a deep exhale.

Solas' voice tells her to rest, to calm her mind. He whispers words that can heal her broken spirit. Words of care, of love.

Michal nods in the dark and all is quiet again.

And she is not forsaken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So everything is relative, Michal is 20 at the time of the Conclave


	17. Chapter 17

_succour_

_-n. help; relief; aid; assistance, a person or thing that gives help_

 

He is no stranger to internal torment. It has plagued him all his days, sometimes deafening and all consuming, other days a quiet, niggling reminder in the back of his mind.

But for all his years of suffering, never has he experienced the pain of seeing the woman he loves – the very extension of his own heart - slowly drifting away from grief.

When he first discovered her in her quarters she had exhausted herself from crying. The sound had been harrowing. He cleaned up her hands, cast a spell over them to accelerate the healing, then carefully bound them while she slept.

A second later, Cole’s benevolent figure was at his side, looking past him at the prone form of Michal.

‘ _So many voices. Confused, scared, screaming. Trying to get away. Too late. No one came to help and there are too many_.’ The boy then turned to Solas. ‘ _She couldn’t save them_.’

‘No,’ he had responded, flattening his palm against her brow. The faintest shimmer of green flickered between his fingers. The least he could do was help her sleep. ‘She couldn’t.’

* 

He climbs into bed with her that night. 

He had been content to sit in her quarters, like an unmoving sentry. All is quiet when he feels a twinge in his heart and he knows she has slipped into uneasy sleep. His spirit hears her, long before her voice catches his ears with pained murmurs.

He slips under the sheets behind her, holds her in his arms. He will not let the night terrors claim her.

In that moment he wishes there were no space between them. That he could breach those final few centimetres where limbs do not fit quite perfectly together. That she would truly know he is there.

He speaks to her in Elven, rather than the common tongue. There is something in their shared language that can reach the soul in a way the human language cannot.

When she is calm once more, her body going slack, he finally allows himself to wander into the fade.

* 

He becomes weary of the questions.

The advisors seek him out when he ventures into the communal areas. They ask him how she is; is she recovering; how is she feeling. Yet he knows what they really wish to know – he can see it in their eager eyes.

 _Can she return to her duties?_ Leliana wants to say.

 _Is she fit to lead?_ Cullen asks silently.

 _When will she be able to greet the new visitors?_ Josephine leaves unsaid.

There is a world falling down around them and she is the only person who can do anything about it.

He wants to be rash, tell them everything. Tell them what their marker pushing and map pulling has done to her. 

That she has mostly been sleeping, because she is unable to bear the images that come to her conscious mind. That she has barely spoken, because is she does fresh sobs threaten to spill from her parted lips. That she occasionally eats, but only when he is persistent.

In time the grief will kill her if she allows it.

But he cannot blame them for their desperation. They are only human. So instead he is curt.

She is resting, she is eating more, she is starting to talk again.

That is all they deserve to know. 

* 

Close to a week has passed since he first discovered her.

He wants to believe she is healing; but he can still feel it. The disconnect, like something has been plucked from his chest. His heart is not yet whole and neither is she. 

He has fallen asleep in her bed again, although she has been sleeping better. The creases in her brow have not been so deep of late and the crying less frequent. It is a good sign, yet not enough, he thinks.

‘ _The pain is not so bad today._ ’ 

He is awake in an instant to the sound of Cole’s voice. It is as if the spirit has whispered right into his ear. When he turns Cole is on the other side of the bed, pointing to something behind where he lies. The spirits eyes are bright, excited.

‘ _Look_.’

It is then he sees that Michal is no longer at his side. So he turns, sitting up as he does to discover what has drawn Cole here.

Michal is situated on the sofa, balancing a plate between her crossed legs. She does not see him, only the food in front of her, which she is slowly eating. She has unwrapped the binding from her hands. Her knuckles have healed, with only the faintest red lines as a reminder of what she did.

It is the first time he has not pushed her to eat, the first time she has seemingly ventured beyond her quarters in the past few days.

Solas rises from the bed, slowly walking the sofa. He treads lightly, as if he were approaching a nervous animal. She still makes no affirmation that she has seen him, even when he is finally stood right beside her. Only when he sits do her hands come to rest on either side of the plate. She stares at the half eaten food for a while, nails lightly scrapping along the rim of the plate.

Eventually, she turns to him, almost timidly. She looks at him through long lashes. He says nothing, does not even move, waiting with bated breath for what she might do. 

She licks her dry lips.

‘ _Aneth ara_ ' -a pause - ' _ma lath_.'

She does not smile. She does need to. For he can see the familiar sparkle of life glimmering faintly in the blue of her eyes. The faintest expectant rise in her brows.

‘ _Aneth ara_ , _ma vhenan_ ,’ he agrees.

Those few words. They are enough.  


	18. Chapter 18

_fata organa_

_-n. a flash of real emotion glimpsed in someone sitting across the room_

 

The Emerald Graves is beautiful.

An abundance of nature, thriving with creatures, lit by bright sun filtering through a canopy of leaves.

It is no surprise that Michal ventures ahead of the party. She walks as if this place is familiar. She moves with such a light step, as if nothing could burden her, almost skipping on her toes. She is careful to avoid the flowers, reverently traces her fingers over the rugged bark of the trees, quietly observes the darting nugs and rams. 

He has not seen this side of her in what feels like an age. The part of her that thrives in the outside world. She is a being with a nomadic spirit and the countryside will always call to her.

They reach a clearing, bathed in sunshine, lush grass sparkling under the rays of the sun.

A trio of August Rams are grazing only a few steps ahead of them. He expects them to scatter; they are, after all, as timid as halla. The animals raise their head at the sound of the approaching party, ears twitching back and forth. Small hooves scrape against dirt ready to push off at the slightest motion from the strangers.

However, Michal holds her hand out to one, palm upturned and fingers closed. 

The ram jolts to dart away, muscles tensing throughout its body, then reconsiders. It pokes its nose out, steps closer. One step, two steps. Its black nose sniffs the fingers offered to it. And it lowers its head to Michal. Allows her to stroke the blue hair on its muzzle and brow, scratch the longer hair that covers its jaw.

Michal is grinning, ear to ear, almost laughing at this moment she has been able to capture. Eventually she has to bite her own lip to stop herself making a noise that would scare the ram away. 

It is the first time she has smiled in weeks.

Then she is looking directly at him. Her face – all raised cheeks and eyes shining almost as bright as the sun above – is to him as rain is to the land after a drought.

He can practically see the way her soul is beginning to sing again with the purest joy and that is more beautiful than anything they will find in the Emerald Graves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the short update, but otherwise I would not be able to write anything for possibly another week


	19. Chapter 19

_ambedo_

_-n. a kind of melancholic trance in which you become completely absorbed in vivid sensory details_

She closes her eyes, blocks out the visual world.

The leaves sound louder now, as the gentle breeze drifting through the forest tousles them back and forth. The many branches occasionally creak with the effort.

The long grass is tickling her cheeks, carrying with it the fresh scent of dew. Nugs are squeaking in the distance, rams trotting alongside each other, crows chattering up above.

There is a river near by, she can hear the steady streams of water rising and dipping over pebbles and rocks.

Bold rays of sunlight are warming her face, catching her eyelashes, trying to gently pry her eyes open again.

She inhales deeply and everything smells of home.

She has so missed the freedom of the forest, the unconfined life that thrives beyond the reaches of civilization. It is soothing, liberating. A memory of her life before the Inquisition.

Then the blunt reminder that she has no one to return to suddenly quenches the contentment that has surfaced. The one thing she wants to keep as hers – to be able to enjoy it unabashedly – is beginning to be tainted.

For just one second she wanted to be able to forget.

The grass beside her crunches under the weight of another body. 

She turns her head, opens her eyes to the bright sun and luminous green atmosphere of the forest.

Solas is still beside her, hand under his head and chest rising and falling gently. Her eyes sweep over the defined lines of his face, the perfectly formed profile that is always so peaceful in sleep, the way his freckles are more pronounced in the sunlight. His pink lips are parted just slightly, his eyes occasionally twitching under his eyelids. She would trace her finger along the fine bridge of his nose if it would not wake him up.

The discontent that is trying to dampen her spirits is suddenly stifled at the sight of him.

She shifts closer without preamble, nestling herself against him and resting her head on his chest. He does not even flinch at the unexpected contact, just loops his free arm around her shoulders to pull her in closer.

Her eyes drift shut once more.

Warmth is radiating from him. The fabric of his tunic is soft against her cheek. This close she can hear the very beat of his heart, slow and steady. The pulse of the mana in his veins calls to hers. He smells of the grass they are lying in, mingled with the tang of o-zone that clings to him long after he has cast a spell. It is as if, even in the physical world, the Fade perpetually lingers around him.

Michal smiles to herself, as her fingers toy with the wolf jawbone around his neck.

This is better than the forest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look, I found time for another little update


	20. Chapter 20

_nas’falon_

**-** _[elvhen] n. soul mate; Unlike English nas’falon denotes a relationship where two people are so incredibly close, that it is as if they share a soul, elves only ever have one nas’falon_

 

Such sad eyes, she thinks.

Too solemn for one so young.

The girl in the portrait is beautiful, all pale skin and auburn hair, yet her eyes are melancholic. And Michal can feel it now. The residual sorrow in this place, the pain and the anguish, which the noble daughter just could not contain any longer.

Michal skims her fingers along the delicate filigree of the carved, wooden frame.

‘ _She only wanted to be free_.’ Cole’s soft voice whispers against the edge of her ear. That is all most can wish for, Michal thinks. She finds herself apologising to the portrait, hoping that, wherever she might be, the girl is at peace.

‘We should leave this place.’

Cassandra’s voice cuts through the silence of the house. Michal is dragged abruptly from her reverie, to turn her gaze on the warrior. The Seeker is at the front door, already turning the handle to heave it open.

The bright light of the Emerald Graves floods the foyer of the chateau, catching all the dust that is drifting about. Shards of light slash across the portrait, illuminating the girl’s skin and setting her eyes alight.

Michal cannot look any further. Cannot stay in this place any longer. The loneliness of the chateau is too much.

However, as she treads slowly down the path, stepping carefully as not to tripped on the over grown garden, she knows she will not soon forget this place.

* 

For every night since they have been in the Emerald Graves he has slept alone. It should come as no strange thing to sleep in solitude, but he has become used to the warmth of another body besides his, to feel the gentle brush of fingers on his chest and the light sighs of breath against his skin.

To be alone in sleep now feels…hollow.

He lies flat on his back, hands resting on his stomach. He starts to drift into the Fade, forgetting the stimuli of the Graves. He is tipping over the edge from his last shreds of consciousness, his mind now distant from his physical body, that he does not hear the rustle, as a lithe intruder parts the flaps of his tent.

It is not until he hears – no, _feels_ – the gentle lips mouth _ma’arlath_ against his own that he is brought back to the waking world. 

Long strands of moon-kissed hair tickle his cheeks. Light hands curve around his jaw, thumbs tugging his ear lobes. He parts his eyelids marginally. Michal is a shadow above him, only the very edges of her features catching what little light surrounds them.

It has been so long since she was this close, this palpable. His soul is already reaching out to intertwine with hers. It hurts his heart.

Her cool blue eyes are alive with emotion; despair, weariness, loneliness… _want_. Her gaze is becoming insistent, where her touch is still feather light.

He cannot contain the craving of his own body and finally rouses himself to follow the demands of his spirit. His hands seek her out first, running over skin and clothing alike, as if to determine is she has really come to him. Her skin tingles and warms under his touch. Soon it is not enough.

He kisses her, maybe too roughly, but she does not protest. Her hands clutch at the base of his skull. He cannot stop himself; it has felt like an age since she has been in his arms. With each press of his lips – to her mouth, to her throat, to her breasts – she holds him tighter. She has felt the same heartache.

Clothes are discarded quickly, efficiently.

They have travelled this path so many times now. He is desperate to see that brown expanse of skin that no eye before his has witnessed. To trace the _vallaslin_ that curls across her back and down her spine. She pushes her naked body against his, the faintest sigh passing her lips. It his her turn to kiss him, brows drawn together in desperation and arms wound tightly about his neck. Solas has his palms pressed flat to her, fingers beginning to dig into the smooth flesh. 

They are so very quiet. Neither has forgotten that their companions are only separate from them by finely woven fabric. Moans are subdued to gasps and whines turn to meagre whimpers.

So many unspoken words play through his head, as he lays her down. That he has never longed for anyone the way he has for her. How she is the only one who has ever occupied his heart. That there will never be another that his soul will sing for.

But in the stillness of the night, looking at her now, anything he might say dies on his lips. He does not need words to tell her how dear she is – no, how _important_ she is.

She is looking up at him with the faintest smile now pulling at the corner of her lips. The pain in her eyes has been washed away.

He kisses her, this time with reverence.

And then they are one.

Their bodies push and pull against each other in ways they already know. Her mouth whispers against his, the breath of _ma’arlath_ meeting his ears over and over. Those words drive him, hold him. 

In that moment - where there is not even a scrap of clothing between them - her voice reaches his very soul.

 _Emma sa’lath_ , is his response.

There will never be another after her.

* 

She holds him close for a while after they are spent. He is placing absent kisses across her brow and cheeks.

She had almost forgotten what it was like to be this close to someone, completely interconnected body and soul. She had become so lost in the pain of losing her clan. This time, however, she knows that will not happen again.

He draws back, just far enough to move to her side. His arms stay wrapped about her, his nose pressed into her ruffled hair.

All she can smell and feel is him. It is all she wants in this world, to be able to come back him. To be cut off from the rest of the world that demands her attention and only seen by him. She needs no reassurance that he will be her home. 

She presses into him, as close as their bodies will allow. Their skin has cooled, their breath now even. Only their souls continue to thrum to the same beat, completely in sync.

Her eyes close and she allows herself to finally slip into the Fade, unburdened for the first night after so many of pain. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy crap i'm back


	21. Chapter 21

_compathy_

_-n. feelings, as happiness or grief, shared with others_

The keep is a sight to behold.

Every possible surface is glazed with snow, almost purifying the horror the Templars had undertaken within its walls.

The new occupiers will take much better care of it, restore it to its original grandeur and use it for its original purpose. Suledin is in safe hands now.

Michal laughs with child like glee, as she bounds down the steps. Her boots have been abandoned and she is kicking up the snow with her bare feet. Sera charges after her, yelling. ‘You’ll pay for that!’

In a second a lump of snow explodes across her back – right between her shoulder blades - and knocks her down into the powdery ground. She is still giggling, even as she sits up to dust herself off. Sera’s form casts a shadow over her.

‘Told ya’,’ the other elf says proudly, hands on hips.

They’ve been at it for almost an hour now; charging and darting under columns and round the statues of elven archers. It is the most fun Michal has had in weeks. It reminds her of her childhood, the unrivalled freedom of youth and blissful ignorance.

‘You keep cheating,’ she grins, as Sera helps her up.

The blond elf snorts. ‘Who used their magic-y nonsense to pelt me with five at a time?’ Michal’s smile broadens further, her tongue poking out between her teeth. Sera starts to laugh, playfully pushing at her friend's shoulder, before the pair begin to make their way back to the main courtyard.

A few people are milling about, mostly Inquisition and Orlesian soldiers. Cassandra is close to the smithy, precisely sharpening her blade. She had made rather an indignant expression when Sera called her a stick in the mud with no sense of humour.

Michal scans the faces for who she seeks most.

Then she spies Solas, rounding the monument of Andraste.

‘Look out,’ Sera smirks. ‘Elven Glory’s about.’ Michal screws up her nose at the nickname, although she has given up trying to convince Sera he has never once said that.

He doesn’t notice them and the playful side of Michal, that is still making her heart race with adrenalin, plants an idea in her head. Without hesitation she ignites her magic in the palm of her hand. The tendrils of white bind together into tiny crystals, then snowflakes and finally a perfectly cast snowball.

‘’E’s gonna hate you for that,’ Sera warns, although she is smiling.

Michal giggles, then hurls the snow across the courtyard. It hits Solas with a fantastic blow right at the base of his skull.

‘Run!’

She and Sera dart for cover, like naughty school children. They do not need to wait to know that he will be glaring at them, eyes alight with displeasure.

*

Michal is tightening the leather straps of her armour.

They are to depart from the keep now the repairs are complete on the bridge. There are further areas to discover in the Emprise, places inhabited by dragons they have been told.

She is almost ready when something splatters against the back of her skull.

The impact jolts her, but what is worse is the horrible sensation of icy water quickly melting against her warm skin. It trickles under her freshly donned clothing, sending tremors up her spine.

She rounds on her attacker, expecting to see Sera’s smug features looking back at her. Oh, she _would_ be pleased with herself for catching the Inquisitor off guard.

Yet, Michal finds someone wholly unexpected.

Solas is smirking at her, using his staff to support his weight, as he surveys the sight before him. He is playing with his magic in the palm of his free hand, apparently already casting another ball of snow.

Michal cannot determine whether she is offended or impressed. She is certainly surprised. He had been so grumpy after she caught him in the courtyard; this was the last thing she had expected from him.

‘Fair is fair,’ he says, words drawling with self-satisfaction.

That look on his face – the one that pulls his features just so that she cannot resist him – is now only fuelling her fire for revenge.

Her eyes narrow.

She forgets her armour and the preparation for their very immediate departure. She raises both hands, summoning her mana. Her brows pull together and a dangerous smile spreads across her face.

‘Not for long.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's silly I know but *shrug*


	22. Chapter 22

_morii_

_-n. the desire to capture a fleeting moment_

 

The Lady Ambassador has truly out done herself.

Never has he seen such a plethora of cakes and tarts and pastries. There is an entire spectrum of coloured icings, jams, custards, candied fruits. Strawberries and raspberries, peaches and plums.

The hall is filled with the cloying aroma of saccharine.

He is inclined to stand on the outskirts of the party, as is his usual place; to watch and observe. It has always been his way. 

That was before her.

This evening he finds himself in the very midst of all Michal’s companions, as they wish her a happy Nameday and raise their drinks in her honour. She has remained close to him all night, even when Josephine has tried to pull her away. He allows the sense of pride to stick with him, as she turns down the opportunities to be introduced to yet more nobles.

Her features are luminous with unadulterated joy and maybe one cup too many of wine – Dorian has plied her with far too much. ‘Enjoy it! It’s your birthday!’ he had said. The heady scent of grapes clings to her hair, intermixed with the sugary essence of all the cakes she has been eating.

Then her hand is in his, tugging insistently, pulling him along quickly without explanation.

He finds himself in the corridor to the Rotunda, cloaked by shadows from the view of the guests. She is grinning, almost giggling, swaying slightly on light feet. In the dim lit her eyes are afire with life.

This is what he will remember always. When it is only her. The way the candles highlight the lines of her face. How her metallic hair rolls over her shoulders. The tilt in her head, as she smiles at him, biting in her bottom lip. The contortion of the scar beside her left eye. Her brows drawing together just so to crease the skin between.

She pushes herself on to her tiptoes. She wobbles from the wine, so he supports her with a steady hand on her side.

Michal kisses him with slanted lips, the faint taste of almonds still on her tongue from all the frangipane. He wants to savour it, keep her close, kiss her over and over in their temporary hideaway.

However, she pulls away, just as the heat around them is becoming palpable.

He realises she is right to do so. Not here, not now.

Before she can completely detach herself from him, he catches the back of her head, fingers weaved in her soft hair. Her eyes drift shut with a sigh, as his brow rests against hers. He has to actively suppress the pang of guilt that spikes in his heart for keeping her.

He must be staring more intently than he realises, because she is blushing and trying to stifle a giddy laugh.

‘You will have to let me go sooner or later,’ she whispers, her own tongue struggling to get the sentence out.

_Not yet_. _Please, not yet_.

He needs this. Needs this moment. Needs her to stay a while longer.

_You selfish fool_.

He suppresses the pain that might spill forth in his tone, forces a lopsided smirk on to his face. This is her night, her birthday; it should be a joyous occasion. ‘Perhaps later then,’ he responds, allowing a suggestive lilt to come out in his voice. ‘I have yet to give you a gift.’

Michal laughs, playfully slapping his arm and drawing away. Her cheeks are stained red with a deep blush. She plants a brief kiss on the tip of his nose, a smile on her lips.

'Later then.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry I have not updated in so long, forgive me


	23. Chapter 23

_sotto voce_

- _a. in a low, soft voice as not to be overheard_

 

It starts as an electric tingle just under her epidermis, like the blossoming of a bout of pins and needles.

It spreads from her fingertips, trickling through her skin into her muscles, then her bones, consuming her nerves. Suddenly it erupts, like claws shredding through skin, igniting her nerve endings and ripping her from sleep.

The pain in her arm silences her, as if the anchor is choking her airways. But the tears come easily. She clutches at her wrist, as if it might cut of the pain. Michal’s body curls further and further in on itself, trying to stifle the unrelenting waves crushing her from the inside out.

Aggressive blades of green light dart and flicker from her palm, burning like wildfire.

Finally the anchor releases her throat and her voice comes. Words fail her, but she manages a perfect, silence-shattering scream.

Arms swiftly wrap around her, drawing her into a firm embrace and a warm body. Hands try to ease her to unfurl, but she resists. If she relaxes the anchor might consume her, so she holds fast.

‘ _Vhenan_ …’ Solas whispers in her ear. She continues to cradle herself. ‘ _Vhenan_.’ His voice is firmer this time, although his hug is still comforting.

Michal listens this time, relinquishing the hold she has on herself and offering her glowing hand to him.

The neon lights illuminate his face, drawing harsh lines and shadows across his features. He holds her close, steady. He kisses the crown of her head, rocks her slightly. Soft elvhen words, muffled by her hair, reach her ears.

She’s biting her lip, stifling the sobs that want to escape from her throat.

His hand has caged over hers, the anchor’s light trying to pry its way through their fingers. It has never been this bad before.

There had been other nights, some where she was alone and others where he had been by her side, where the anchor had flared. When Solas had been present he had tried to help subdue it, but for all his attempts nothing had work. Michal had to ride out the pain until it passed.

Tonight was no exception.

So patiently he sat by her, giving her just the right amount of affection for her to know he was there. So lovingly he hugged her, stroking her back, combing his hand through her hair.

It feels like hours, although she can’t fully tell. But eventually, when the white-hot pain in her arm has dulled down to little more than the warm heat from a dying fire, she crumples against him.

Everything that has made her body so tense is expelled in a single exhale.

She is aware of a palm flat against her brow, a soft kiss on her cheek.

‘Solas…’ Her voice is a whimper, weary and somewhat pathetic. ‘It’s getting worse.’

‘I know, _vhenan_.’ He sounds just as tired, but his words are also coated with something else. She can’t place it. Worry? Sadness? Uneasiness? Maybe he thinks it will kill her.

Michal twists herself towards him. Holds him tight and buries her face into his chest.

‘Solas…’

‘Go back to sleep now.’ He cuts her off before she can continue. Maybe he cannot bear to hear what she wants to ask. His arms are wrapped tighter around her now.

Not another word passes between them that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i broke my finger and currently can't hold a pen or type properly, so slow updates sorry!


	24. Chapter 24

_anoesis_

- _n. a state of mind consisting of pure sensation or emotion without cognitive content_

‘ _You gain glory in death_!’

Michal darts to avoid another projectile of icy shards. She skids across the frozen surface of the lake, losing her footing and falling on her front. The side of her face hits hard, the very bones of her skull vibrating from the impact.

Her staff clatters across the ice, coming to a sharp halt against an iceberg.

_Fenedhis._

Her head is spinning, only made worse by the deafening screech of Hakkon high over head. She has to force herself back on to her feet, stumbling once, twice, before she is upright again.

She can already feel the warm trickle of blood making a steady path down the side of her face.

Where’s her staff? Where did it fall? Shit, shit, shit.

‘Inquisitor!’

Michal recognises the aggressive tone of Cassandra’s voice, but she can’t tell where from.

‘Quizzy!’ Sera sounds even more frantic than the Seeker.

The entire lake rumbles under her feet and the cold light of the moon is suddenly blotted out. The forceful tornado of wind circulating about Hakkon’s wings beats her face, tries to force her to the ground again.

The dragon is looming above, electric blue eyes fixed on her.

She can see in his eyes that this creature, this “god”, means to kill her. Just like Corypheus. He couldn’t take Ameridan, so he will take her instead.

‘ _Lowlander_.’ Hakkon’s unnatural voice makes her eardrums vibrate. He’s closing in, one carefully placed step at a time. ‘ _I am the breath of winter…’_

She should run, try to make a break for her staff. At least dive out of the dragon’s path. Yet her feet will not move her. Hakkon is still approaching, cornering her against the wall of glaciers.

‘ _…the cold wind of war!_ ’

A barrage of voices shout from both sides. Arrows cut through the air. Magical projectiles blast in all directions. Armoured feet charge towards her.

‘ _You gain glory in death, Inquisitor!’_

Hakkon lunges for her, jaws agape, throat glowing.

By the Creators, she’s failed.

Michal clenches her eyes shut, throws her hands up. Pure instinct is driving her, as if her hands could do anything against a dragon.

She expects the cold to envelop her - icy tendrils curling around her body and tightening like the hangman’s rope - or shards ricocheting against her skin, cutting at her piece by piece.

She braces herself for the inevitability of death.

The world ignites around her. The very air is crackling against her skin, like the metallic tang in the atmosphere just before a storm. She can feel it tugging at her hair, electrifying the fine hairs at the nape of her neck. Her body is afire, yet she can feel her mana draining.

She feels crushed by the weight of the power. She has lost control. It has never happened before. She doesn’t know how to rein it in, to stop herself.

All she can do is let it continue pouring out of her; succumb to it.

Ice is drawing in around her, the lake beneath her trembling. Sheets of ice begin to crack and shatter about her feet. A violent wind is drawing in, swirling snow about. She cannot hold on much longer. It’s too much. Too draining. She begs the Creators to let it stop, let her rest, let it be enough.

The last flickers of her mana leave at the tips of her fingers.

She falls to her knees, hands dropping to her sides. Blood is starting to flow from her nose towards her lip. 

‘Inquisitor!’ It is Solas calling to her this time.

Michal opens her eyes. Even that takes effort now.

She can just make out Hakkon, his maw oozing blackened blood, eyes turning dull as the life finally leaves him. The great beast collapses, slowly, legs falling out from underneath him. Wings fold in on top of his body like crumpled fabric. 

The world is still and she is spent.

But at least it is done.


	25. Chapter 25

_narcotize_

_-v. to make dull; stupefy; deaden the awareness of_

There are dark clouds over Skyhold when they return, as if the storm from Frostback Basin has followed them home.

He can’t help but notice that Michal has been in a daze since they left. It has crossed his thoughts that maybe her enormous use of mana has left her drained. Or perhaps it was the abrupt awakening of her own mortality.

She bypasses the expectant advisors, who were waiting in the main hall.

Josephine is about to follow after her, but stays when Solas’ gestures for her to halt. Cassandra and Sera tarry also, the elf unnaturally quiet for once.

‘Is she gonna be okay?’ she eventually asks.

The Seeker doesn’t reply, but her mouth has formed a pensive line.

* 

Solas ventures into her quarters with careful steps.

A few of the candles are lit and the doors are closed against the morose weather. Light drops of rain are already tapping against the glass and the roof. He takes a long breath before he takes the final step. What can he say or do that might help?

She is sat on the edge of her bed, back towards him. Her outerwear lies in a discarded pile on the floor. Her ears perk up at the sound of his approaching footsteps. She turns her head just enough to look at him, the profile of her face haloed by the candlelight.

He comes to sit beside her.

Then nothing. Just silence. She’s looking at her own hands. He is waiting for her to speak. He can sense the words that are on the end of her tongue, wanting to come forth. He watches the fat drops of water splattering on the stone of the balcony, the darkening sky turning the mountains into rocky shadows.

It is almost a surprise when she finally speaks. It cuts through the growing beat of the rain outside.

‘What will become of me?’ she asks. Her brow is furrowed in frustration. ‘Ameridan was in that cave for 800 years. The world forgot about him. He sacrificed everything for a world that didn’t even care.’

He hesitates, lips parting to reply, but closing just as quickly.

‘I could die trying to save Thedas or even end up like Ameridan. Forgotten in some cave for an eternity.’

Her hands clench tighter in her lap and she closes her eyes tight against the warm light of the candles. He can feel her anguish in his heart. He does not want to admit to himself that he has deliberated over the worst outcome of their mission. He cannot…

The first low rumble of thunder rises across the mountains.

‘You should not dwell on these things, _vhenan_.’ It is the best he can offer, even though his words seem hollow.

‘How can I not?’ she responds softly. Her head falls into her hands, fingers rubbing at weary eyes.

His heart is urging him to pull her against him. To give her false hope that everything will be okay. He could placate her and calm her worries with soothing words. Yet his mind overrules his emotional urges, because logic tells him that he cannot lie. He does not know what will happen when she finally faces Corypheus.

‘I don’t want this to be how it ends.’ Her voice is muffled by the palms of her hands, but they cut him all the same. Muscles tremor under her skin with the trapped tension of her body.

The thunder rolls again, as if it were thrumming against the glass doors around them.

His fingers tingle with the need to place a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Yet he stays himself.

Michal rouses herself, rising from the bed with forced movement. She peels the rest of her garments off, until she is down to her small clothes. The _vallaslin_ drawn across her spine, twists with the effort of her body.

Undressed, she returns to the bed, lying down without preamble and curls up on her side. She tugs at the blankets, like a child reaching for their comforter. It is his cue to stand.

She is so numb to his presence, so distracted by the events of the past few days. 

He decides it is best to leave her for now. His heart aches at the sight of her small, exhausted body. This journey is taking its toll on her; he sees it with each passing moment. The closer they draw to the final battle, the more the fatigue shows. He knows it is the anchor. She was never meant to hold such power. He wants to do more, but that is beyond even his power.

She is already asleep by the time he departs.


	26. Chapter 26

_chrysalism_

- _n. the amniotic tranquillity of being indoors during a thunderstorm_

 

An angry strike of thunder wakes her.

The bright light illuminates her quarters for a brief second, before the darkness returns.

Michal opens her eyes to the dying light of candles. Everything is quiet except for the steady sound of her breathing and the relentless rain pouring across her roof. She does not even recall falling asleep, returning to Skyhold, not even the journey from Frostback Basin.

There is an ache behind the bridge of her nose and the faintest remnant of a headache vibrating at the base of her skull.

She clambers from the bed, pulls on the first tunic she can find and heads down the stairs.

The stone is cold against the soles of her bare feet. They make muted slaps across the ground all through the main hall. It is mostly abandoned, except for the tell tale lights on Vivienne’s balcony. The regal mage is studying again.

Michal rounds the corner to the atrium of the rotunda. It is empty.

Outside the storm still pounds away. Deep growls of thunder, interrupted by cracks of lightning, and harmonised with relentless rain.

She descends into the basement of Skyhold, passes through the empty rooms that are illuminated in warm orange tones. It is so still inside, yet beyond the walls the world is raging.

Finally she comes to the forgotten library, tucked away in the stone alcoves below the main hall. She can see the light of the candles long before she sees Solas. He steps out into the doorway, into view, eyes scanning the book in his hands and silhouetted by the light.

She has known him to come down here on occasion. Once the sheets of cobwebs had been cleared, the books he had discovered had greatly piqued his interest.

The sound of her steps against the floor must reach his ears, because he lowers the book before she reaches him, turning to look at her with bright eyes.

He sets down the book by the time she approaches.

‘I thought you would still be sleeping,’ he says. She can feel his eyes scanning her; as if he is still concerned something might be wrong.

‘The storm woke me,’ she replies, taking the final few steps into the tiny library. There is a slight chill down here, even with the candles. Only he is providing her a real source of warmth. She sucks in her bottom lip, licks it.

‘ _Vhenan_ , if you wish to talk…’

She shakes her head, cutting him off. ‘Not now.’ She is tired of focusing on what might be. She lays a hand against his chest, fingers lightly tugging at the fabric of his tunic.

There is a pause between them, tranquillity against the distant sounds of the storm.

Then she cannot stop herself. She flings her arms around his neck, tilts her head to kiss him deeply. He holds her easily, clutching at the space between her shoulder blades.

She feels the way he is almost desperately clutching her. She is just as intensely clinging to him. The moments they have together now are so sought after; intermediate passionate encounters at any moment that the Inquisition is not the most pressing weight on her back.

Soon it will be over, she thinks. Soon it will just be the two of them.

Warm hands skim across her skin, under fabric and over ribs. Those same hands lift her tunic over her head, flinging the item to the corner. Her skin pimples against the cold.

Solas draws her up, never once breaking the frantic kisses. He turns her round, guides her against the desk. Books tumble to accommodate her behind. He tugs her forward by her legs, makes sure their hips are firmly pressed together. He’s grinding against her slowly, biting at her lip, roving his hands over what he has exposed so far, building the most electric friction between their bodies.

She needs him out of those clothes, needs to feel the length of him against her, in her.

She pulls impatiently at the knitted fabric between them, which he obligingly removes. In return his fingers unfasten the bindings of her breast band, allowing the strip of cloth to fall away.

Michal tries to bring herself closer to him, flattening her breasts against his chest. Her mouth mutes the groan he makes. An impatient hand pushes past her small clothes. Her entire back arches with an electric surge, at the feel of long fingers slipping deep inside.

Her cry echoes against the shelves of the library. Solas grips the small of her back tighter, his other hand moving back and forth. His fingers press deep inside her, over and over. Creators, its perfect.

Yet, not enough. Not what she needs in this moment.

She nudges at the hem of his leggings and soon they are discarded. Soon after, her small clothes are lost to the corners of the library.

Michal can feel him _right there_ , on the verge, and as always the anticipation has her heart pounding. He’s holding himself, blue eyes cloudy. Solas looks at her, lips parted, chest already heaving. He’s beautiful like this.

Her nails bite into the edge of the desk, as he enters her. He’s deliberately slow. He’s holding her just so, lips close enough that she can feel his breath on her face and she knows those hooded eyes are watching every contortion of her face.

The storm outside is no more than a faint rumble above them.

All she can now hear is the tune of Solas’ groans. She grips his back tight, rolling her hips to meet his every thrust. The wood of the desk hurts against her soft skin, but the delicious jolt of his body against hers is consolation.

He pushes her back, dislodging more books.

His mouth works its way along her collarbone, along the muscles of her throat, over her jaw. He bites at her bottom lip, then licks it quickly to sooth the pain.

_Ma ane ina’lan’ehn._

He kisses her chaotically, hand wrapped up tightly in her hair. He hoists her leg higher, pushes in deeper. All she can do is cry out and swear and beg him to keep going. Her back is arching further from the desk the closer she comes to the peak.

He senses it, drives harder; licks and nips and kisses over whatever exposed skin he finds.

_Fenedhis. Fenedhis. Fen…_

She comes with her head thrown back, unable and unwilling to hold in the screams erupting from her throat. Everything but the sensations pulsing through her body is forgotten. He keeps moving, skin still burning against her cooling flesh.

_Mith’ar._

His voice is so low and strained, _desperate_.

Michal tilts her head, catches the blade of his ear between her teeth.

 _Garas_.

His entire body stutters. He’s clutching the base of her skull, face buried in the side of her neck. His entire body is heaving. Warmth spreads inside her, as he spends himself, until finally they are both still.

The library feels colder now against her flushed skin.

Solas holds himself up on his forearms. Michal opens her eyes to a face that is contentedly weary. The slightest smirk is pulling up the edges of his mouth, before he kisses her softly of the flat bridge of her nose.

A sudden bellow of thunder outside starkly reminds her of the storm. So tangled up in him, she had forgotten of the world outside.

‘Perhaps we should return to your quarters,’ he says, smoothing her ruffled hair from her face. Michal nods. Rather a bed than stay against this desk much longer. She can already feel the soreness that will no doubt grip her muscles come the morning.

He kisses her once more; slowly, gently.

She wants to hold him longer, but for now she is content. There will be more time for such things later.


	27. Chapter 27

_deep cut_

- _n. an emotion you haven’t felt in years_

He’s never turned on her in anger.

His brow is lined deeply with frustration, ears upright to attention like a riled predator. There is not an ounce of sympathy in his expression, his tense body, his raised voice.

Michal doesn’t know whether to run from him or ask for forgiveness that she didn’t know she needed.

The voices in her head are whispering against her ear, but even they are not loud enough to drown him out. She manages to supress them to a murmur.

He thinks she is stupid, naïve. She should not have drunk from the Well of Sorrows herself. And she is somewhat inclined to believe him. But it is too late now.

_Why can’t he just accept that?_

The fury in his blue eyes is enough to make her insides curl and twist in discomfort. Her temples are burning, just below her skin; a gradual pressure slowly increasing on her skull. A voice is telling her to cry. She refuses. Not when he can see.

‘And you are bound to one of them now…’

Everything drains from him. Every flame of emotion, every pent up muscle. It leaves him in one long, disappointed sigh. It is barely audible, but the defeat in his body is worse. All that’s left is the hurt.

He turns away from her, fist clenched as he leans heavily against it on the rotunda wall. His head is hung low, face shadowed in the warm yet low light. She watches his back rise and fall with each paced breath.

This is worse than the anger.

Michal bites at her bottom lip. Not him. _Please_.

Too many people have told her of her mistakes and turned their back on her. She could stand her ground against the others. She did not care what they thought, because their words were hollow and purely spiteful.

He, however, his words carve deep into her heart. The sting of – _is it betrayal?_ – burns inside her chest.

‘Solas, I…’ She chastises herself for the waver in her voice. She balls her hands into fists, nails biting into the soft skin of her palms. She is the one trembling now, so uncertain what to do with her body.

Offended hands want to grab his sleeves and force him to face her. He has no right to lay his fury on her. The obstinate voice would tell him that she did her best, that anyone can make a mistake, that he should be sympathetic and supportive. There is something new swimming about in her mind that she cannot make sense of alone. She needs him to help her.

Desperate fingers want to reach out to him, hug him even if he will not reciprocate. An imploring voice wishes to tell him she’s sorry over and over until he absolves her. She needs his forgiveness, to see that coy smirk of affection on his face. 

Michal sniffs. She won’t. _She won’t_.

The first tear starts to prick in the corner of her eyes and she escapes from the rotunda before he can witness her downfall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a little update, sorry


	28. Chapter 28

_keta_

_-n. an image that inexplicably leaps back into your mind from the distant past_

‘ _Vhenan_ ,’ his voice comes with trepidation. The soft niggling of sincerity has been scratching at his soul, from the moment he saw the telltale glint of salty tears in Michal’s eyes.

She is silhouetted, dark as a shadow, against the bright night sky.

‘ _Vhenan_ ,’ he repeats, voice carrying further this time, yet still careful. He makes the first few steps across her quarters. Michal’s shadowy figure turns its head away. Still, he presses forward, treads out on to the balcony until he is beside her.

The starlight reflects against the dampness of her cheeks, in the blue of her eyes. Her skin is twinkling, as if she were one with the heavens themselves. He can see the tightness in her jaw and the trembling in her top lip. 

‘Please, forgive me.’ He drifts closer. ‘I was at fault.’

Michal sucks in her bottom lip, eyes fixed adamantly on the dark mountain rages. He finds himself looking also. The peaks – usually so beautiful – seem ominous at this hour. Unnervingly close.

‘You have not been what I expected, _Vhenan_.’

From the corner of his eye he notes the faintest jolt of surprise in her otherwise stoic pose. He has caught her off guard, which may in turn break down her defences.

‘You have…impressed me.’

Michal snorts.

‘You honour the past and work to recover what was lost, even if the cost is high.’ He can see her turning her gaze to him, as coy as it may be. ‘I respect that.’

It is as good as an apology he can give. Pride has tainted his capacity for sincerity. She has been the one person to whom he is willing to show true humility to.

‘It is because I have had you by my side.’ She replies quietly, nervously almost.

He offers his hand to her, with his palm upturned. He must show her something. Just not here.

‘Come with me, _Vhenan_.' 

*

Free of the incessant rain, Crestwood is tranquil.

They sit for a long while as they talk. He is careful with his words. Of course, she is aware his knowledge of the world, present and past, far surpasses hers. There was, however, no possibility she could have understood by how much.

He wishes there was a way he could have eased her in. The expectant look on her face, the amorous spark in her eyes is extinguished so quickly, as he explains himself. It is for the best though, to finally be upfront. She is the only person who deserves the truth.

If he tells her everything she will eventually come to understand.

He commands his voice; every syllable that leaves his lips is expertly controlled. In no way does he want to seem pious or overbearing or autocratic. He hopes only to speak from a place of adoration. 

For now he must remain cold to the emotion breaking out across her face. She _must_ know this. She is worth so much more than what people see her as. This is the only way. She is not what the _vallaslin_ have made her. 

Solas offers her a choice, one he has not given in what feels like a millennia. To be free or to be bound? He will love her whatever her choice, but he cannot deny that he hopes for the former.

So when she says _yes, please take it away_ the unease he has felt up till now is sedated.

This moment is like a piece of music he has not heard since his youth. That faint memory that is remembered, but as if it had happened to someone else.

He can see she is nervous, perhaps more so than she has ever been. To deny the life she has lived for twenty-one years is no fleeting decision. He does not lie when he says he respects her. She is putting her entire life into his hands. All her faith rests in what he is about to do. He passes her the subtlest nod. _Everything will be fine._

Michal closes her eyes against the mana glowing in his palms, a whisper of a comforted smile on her lips.

All is still, apart from the steady flow of the waterfall.

She stays with her eyes shut, even after the light has subsided, as if she is scared of how he might now see her. Her breath comes short and her hands and clasped tightly in her lap. She does not know how beautiful she is to him – how beautiful she has always been.

However, nothing has ever compared to this, right now. Not the first moment he saw her, not the dress from Halamshiral, not even the first time he lay with her. Her face, now an expanse of brown skin, unmarred by ink, is the most glorious she has ever been.

‘ _Ma ane ina’lan’ehn_ ,’ he breathes.

She has only a second to open her eyes, before he has drawn her up and his lips are against hers. Michal giggles against his mouth a little, although her levity is forgotten quickly by the intensity of it all. He holds her urgently close, one hand on the small of her spine, the other tangled up in her hair. She is more than he ever thought he deserved, so her clutches at her for as long as he is able.

Eventually he withdraws, desperate to look upon her face again.

In her, he sees a hundred faces that once held the marks of another. Faces that had once looked at him with a glow of hope. Faces that, like her, had put all their faith in him.

And he had destroyed them.

Not just them, their entire world. He had disappointed so many. How could he have forgotten?

_You are the Dread Wolf, not some hermit elf of Thedas’ wilds._

His hands drop limply to his sides and he steps back.

They still need him. The world is not right yet. He needs it to be right. He has to fix what he has fractured. _So many faces. So, so many._

‘Solas?’

Finally he has been reminded of his purpose.

And she is not it.

_She has dulled your bite, Dread Wolf._

He apologises for distracting her, as if that will be enough to sate her confusion. She responds with tears.

_Not now. Don’t leave me. I love you._

Her pleas do not fall on deaf ears, yet he must pretend they do.

He raises his hands against her, tries to deter her from breaching the space he has forced between them. If she reaches him his resilience will come crumbling down. He turns his face away from her pleading sobs and the sight of her beautiful, tear-stained face.

‘I’m sorry, _Vhenan_.’

He will sacrifice his own wants and feelings for the sake of many.

As is his way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am so sorry that i haven't updated this story in so long, my new job has so much overtime i haven't been able to draw or write, but i hope to fix that now (christmas holiday's ya'll)


	29. Chapter 29

_nodus tollens_

- _n. the realization the plot of your life doesn’t make sense to you anymore_

 

She peers out from under the blankets at the sound of approaching steps. The tread is light, yet deliberate. She already knows whose face will rise above the stone half wall.

‘Please go away, Dorian,’ she groans.

The other mage scoffs, as he walks over. ‘Now is that anyway to speak to your _best_ friend?’

She’s not in the mood; his dry humour would usually make her chuckle, even laugh out right. Solas has ruined her, as if his final words to her have drawn all joy from her being.

The bed dips as Dorian perches himself on the edge of the mattress.

‘Rise and shine, Inquisitor.’

Michal swaddles herself further amongst the blankets. When she is alone she can at least pretend she is not a being with conscious thought. She can just sleep. And dream.

Companionship forces her to face the reality, a reality she is not willing to accept just yet.

‘I made you a sandwich.’ - She screws up her face, although Dorian cannot see. - ‘Oh, who I am I fooling? I have never made a sandwich in my life.’

She can smell the comforting waft of freshly baked, crusty bread starting to cool, slightly melted cheese and smoked ham. It only reminds her of how little she has eaten over the past few days.

It had started as complete numbness. She had somehow drifted back from Crestwood and sunk into her bed. The softness had allowed her to forget for a few days, consumed by endless sleep. She had found comfort in pretending she did not exist for a while. 

The sleep had been followed by vague meandering about her quarters. A pointless back and forth from her bed, to the fireplace, to her desk. Unable to settle, yet unable to focus. It had been so long since she had had to live with her own existence. Her heart desperately longed to turn to him, but that was no longer an option.

‘If you don’t come out of there soon I may have to eat this myself.’

Michal slowly pushes back the covers. There is a warm smile on the necromancer’s face, twisting his impeccable moustache up at the corners. The sandwich sits beside him on the bed, conveniently within arms reach.

Her narrow fingers stretch out, catching the edge of the plate and dragging it towards her.

‘You know you’ve been up here for a week?’ Dorian crosses one leg over the other.

She ignores the question; she’s taking a bite from the sandwich that tastes _oh so good_. Besides, everyone in Skyhold knows she's locked herself away for the a week.  _Creators_ , Corypheus probably even knows.

‘You cannot avoid our resident Elvhen apostate hobo forever,’ the mage presses on. Her heart clenches in her chest. Even the thought of him pains her.

‘I can try,’ she murmurs.

She does not miss Dorian’s eyes almost roll into the back of his head. ‘You know how much I can’t stand this emotional drivel, _however_ , I do hate to see you like this.’

Michal sets the now half eaten sandwich down. For the first time in hours, she forces herself to sit. She moves slowly, shuffling about with the blankets and pulling herself with what little energy she has. Eventually she finds herself upright, back leaning heavily against the headboard and knees hugged tight against her chest. Dorian’s stare is resolute, but she can see the emphatic crease in his brows.

‘I just…I don’t understand _why,_ Dorian.’ Of all the reasons she has gone over in her isolation, none make sense. 

‘Have you perhaps thought to ask?’

Michal scowls at her friend. He can be so oblivious at times.

‘Right, of course.’ She is surprised when Dorian leans forward to tuck some loose strands of silver hair behind her ear. ‘Now I say this with love, but you are a mess. You’ll cause Vivienne to drop down dead if she sees you like this.’

Finally, Michal finds it within herself to smile. It hurts at first; her lips are dry and cracked. The muscles work harder at the corners of her mouth, pulling further until she all but giggles.

‘There now,’ Dorian smirks. ‘You look better already.’


	30. Chapter 30

_rigor samsa_

- _n. a kind of psychological exoskeleton that can protect you from pain and contain your anxieties, but always ends up cracking under pressure_

He regrets how coldly he has to speak to her. 

He tells her that he was selfish, that she is not as fault. Every word that passes his lips stings his chest. Her eyes are glassy, shining with tears already shed and those that are threatening to fall. He admires her, in spite of the emotions trying to manipulate her, she still holds firm. He tells her that he is the one at fault and that Corypheus is more important. His own soul chastises him, because it knows how important his _Vhenan_ is. But his rationale holds fast and drives her further back.

Once she is out of sight his composure fractures. He braces himself against his desk, knuckles turning white, as he grips the wood. His heartbeat thrums deafeningly loud in his eardrums. His chest is heaving with strained breath. He cannot believe what a monster he is.

He aches when he is confronted about her.

Most of her companions have the tact to reserve their opinions. However, many judging eyes sweep over him. Sera’s are particularly spiteful and he can only imagine what revenge she might be plotting in that twisted mind of hers.

It is easier when she ventures out without him. Then he is not constantly reminded of her presence. Her illuminating face that can now only look at him in sadness.

Dorian is a tactful man, when he so pleases, so he breaches the subject as delicately as he can. He expresses interest in the wellbeing of both parties; Solas does not wish to hear it. The mage may mean well, but he does not need anyone to remind him of what he has done. Dorian offers a listening ear, although both of them can see that Solas would never talk so frankly.

He allows the pain to gnaw at him. It scratches just behind his ribs, like a rat clawing at his insides over and over. Sharp, little cuts eating at him. His pointed features are the only part of him maintaining his resolve.

He grieves that this is how he must leave her.

He had wanted to tell her everything, answer every question she might have about who he is and why things had to be as they were. Instead he finds himself mourning over the fragments of an Elvhen relic and Michal hovering apprehensively close by. He turns to her and is not greeted by a face of sorrow. Her youthful features are resolute; hardened in a way he has never seen before. Whether it is a front or genuine acceptance, he cannot tell.

Her companions will discover them soon. He has but a moment to say goodbye and one that is more sufficient. He forgets the broken orb, useless as it is, to approach her. One careful step after another. He is brave – or maybe foolish – to breach the blockade he has constructed.

_It was not supposed to happen this way_.

Her brows knit with confusion.

_No matter what comes, I want you to know that what we had was real._

He is close enough to see the corner of her mouth twitch. He wants to draw her close, whisper apologies and assurances against her neck, feel her fingers cling to him. He is torn from his reverie by a harsh shout of _Inquisitor_ from across the ruins.

She finally exhales the breath she has been holding. His opportunity has passed. One last glance from those limpet eyes and she is gone.

He can feel the weight of the world crushing him without her.

His throat constricts. His own chest starts to crush his organs. He can't hold himself straight. But he knows the only thing he can do is endure. He has made this bed, so he must lie in it.

He stumbles out of that cursed place, into the night. Into the unknown. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can only apologise for how far apart these chapters are now, work and other things have fully taken up my life, but the end is in sight so patience if you please!


	31. Chapter 31

_waldosia_

- _n. a condition characterised by scanning faces in a crowd looking for a specific person who would have no reason to be there_

She can’t help herself.

Michal looks for him in every passing face. Every pointed ear. Every pair of pale eyes. Every hairless head. Her heart jolts in anticipation, only to be painfully disappointed. She tells herself she is being ridiculous, but the longing in her soul needs to be sated. 

Michal knows it is false hope to believe that he might come back. But if being Inquisitor has taught her anything, the unexpected always seems to be the most likely outcome. So, while her brain starts looking ahead to the work to come, her heart beats patiently.

Days pass.

The time for celebration is over. Back to work. The remnants of Corypheus’ armies still need to be cleared out. She has much to do in the field, many dignitaries to meet. She throws her all into it, as a distraction. She will give nothing less than the best.

But Dorian catches her gazing distantly out of the rotunda window when he is trying to talk to her.

Josephine sees her lose her train of thought at the war table.

Sera has to keep finishing the drinks that she never touches in the tavern.

Cullen finds her staring blankly at the unfinished fresco on his way to the main hall.

And Bull, well, Bull offers to punch it out of her.

Weeks pass.

The Inquisition has settled into new tasks. The stragglers have either fled or been dealt with. Now, protecting Thedas is priority number one. Michal still finds herself sweeping her wandering eyes over new faces. Just in case.

Although, the need is starting to dull. She has noticed a change in herself. A newfound rigidity in the way she holds herself and leads. Perhaps this is what happens in the aftermath of heartbreak. Or maybe it just comes with maturity. She realises she was so young to lead - by the Creators, she still is – but now, some of the frivolity of her youth has been siphoned off.

Whatever it is, the demands of the Inquisition, another year in this world or what she has lost, Michal has been made new. 

Perhaps not all new. Sera says she's still the same pain she's always been.

Months pass.

Michal finds herself riding towards Halamshiral. Dubious mutterings fill her ears. Skeptical eyes follow her path. It feels like an age ago since she last laid eyes on the ornate architecture and had to endure the berating Orlesians.

A long breath passes through her lips, eyes drifting shut as her steed follows its path to the main gate.

She remembers a purple gown, coated in jewels that had her pulling at her throat all evening. The twinkling sound those same jewels made as they spilled on the floor in a heap of fabric. Fingers finding skin in the dark. Memories of whispered words on an Elvhen tongue. Sun prying through curtains to warm her skin.

Her eyes open with a start.

The sun is bright on her face. Her horse is still walking steadily along the path. Cullen and Josephine are talking in hushed whispers behind her.

She looks about her, surveying those that are spectating. A breath of relief almost passes when she cannot see him.

Indeed, she thinks to herself, he is just a memory now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the end is drawing near


	32. Chapter 32

_heartworm_

_-n. a relationship or friendship that you can’t get out of your head, which you thought had faded long ago but is still somehow alive and unfinished_

She walks through the Elvhen ruins as if something were drawing her very heart towards the figure in the distance.

One perfect step after another, drawing closer. Every foot breached only makes the organ in her chest pound faster and her skin tingle in anticipation. The crackling of the Anchor is drowned out by her own heart drumming in her ears. Her chest is tight, lips slightly parted, fingers starting to tremble.

Over two years since he broke her heart and still hers begs to be close to his once more.

 _Solas_.

As if mirroring the emotional tempest in her small body, the Anchor flares, ripping up her arm and dragging her firmly to the ground. Not now. She wants to appear strong.

The corners of her eyes are starting to darken, the tears on the breach of falling. 

Footsteps disturb the shallow water she is knelt in, pausing a mere metre away. The Anchor is suddenly numbed, although her skin still burns and her palm still glows. She glares at her own hand for a minute, as if chastising it for bringing her to her knees before him. 

Finally she hears his voice, as gentle as the breeze that tousles her silver hair.

_That should give us some time._

* 

Solas almost does not recognise the woman before him.

He still sees the same beautiful face and limpet blue eyes. Her hair is longer, tied back in elaborate braids, rather than loose and free. There is a hardness to her features that was not there before. Maybe she has merely become cold to him. It is what he deserves after all. Perhaps that is what makes it easier for him to final speak up.

_Ir abelas, Vhenan._

His words anger her. The stern mask finally cracks and her voice breaks with it.

_Tel’abelas. If you care, give me the truth._

Her words sting and he finds his brow furrowing. Then he realises she is right, yet again. He cannot lie to himself any longer, or her. He has been playing the fool. So smart was she to discover his true identity all of her own accord. The least he can do is be honest now.

She steps towards him, but he will not allow her to come any closer and so steps away. The tiniest thread of control is still keeping him at arms reach, holding him upright.

He tells her of what he was, what he has done, what he is and what he will do. He cannot look her in the eye, so he looks out over the crumbling stone and overgrown foliage. It is the explanation she is entitled too.

As he speaks, sorrow threatens to take over his words. He thinks of the many times they have been like this, she clinging on to his every word, engrossed in the compelling tales and knowledge he had. His heart hurts knowing they will not have that again and that this time he will only bring more pain.

He hangs his head low, still unable to look upon her face.

 _I will save the Elven people, even if it means_ this _world must die._

He waits, breath held, with his back to her. Expecting harsh words and declarations of war. That he is now her enemy. That whatever they may have had is long forgotten if he plans to destroy everything she loves.

_Let me help you, Solas._

*

She surprises herself with her response.

She waits for him to react; he has refused to look at her directly thus far. It seems now though, she has finally caught him out. The expression that greets her is a mixture of such adoration and heartache. It is as if she can see the very burden on his shoulders. She cannot stand it.

She had said she loved him, but she was wrong. She is still _in love_ with him.

He shakes his head. _I cannot let you do that, Vhenan._  

She hangs her head low. Of course.

_I walk the Din’anshiral. There is only death on this journey._

Now she is the one unable to look upon him. She stares at the green light peeking out between her clenched fingers. She tightens her fist, blocking more of the light out, as if her nails cutting into her palm might help in some way.

What does she even want now? What does she want of him?

They cannot go back to what was. What future could there be for an almost god and soon-to-be erstwhile Inquisitor?

So focused has she become on the biting pain of her own hand, she does not realise there is a body, warm and close before her. Michal dares to look up. She cannot tell who is hurting more. No, she does. It is he. His eyes carry age upon age of torment.

 _It is_ my _fight._

She suddenly feels droplets of water catching on her lip. So much for being strong.

She is about to wipe her tears away, when his gloved thumb reaches her cheek first. His touch is so delicate and it only makes more tears fall.

 _Please_. She does not miss the catch in his voice. _Allow me to bear this._

She pushes his hand away. Not angry at him, but for how he would sacrifice himself. As if no one would mourn his loss.

_You cannot ask me to let you walk this path alone._

Her body trembles with emotion she does not know how to express. She wipes away the last of the tears with the back of her hand, as the finally subside. He has not backed away this time. Now he just holds himself awkwardly, hands at his sides, as if he hopes he may reach out for her again.

She does not expect the faintest smile to pull at the corner of his lips. He has accepted that this is to be his fate. _But you must._

Michal blinks, trying to stop fresh tears that want to come. She bites at her bottom lip, shakes her head. She just…she cannot comprehend. That this might be the end. He is finally voicing it, finally telling what she thought she needed to hear those years ago.

Yet, here she is, unwilling to believe there is no future for them. She realises now it was easier not knowing, because at least then she could fabricate her own truths.

It would be right to let him go. Who is she to tell him that he must stop this? To act like a selfish child and demand he stays because of her?

_Solas…_

* 

She kisses him with a desperation he has never felt from her before. Kisses of longing, of lost time, of goodbyes. His willpower shatters in her arms. One hand clutches the nape of her neck, the other her back.

He shouldn’t. He will forget himself against the feel of her mouth and the way her hands are holding on to him.

 _Var lath vir suledin._ Her voice is so quiet against his lips, almost pleading. The Elvhen words should be comforting to his soul, but all they do is cut.

He kisses her again, because he cannot give an answer that she will want to hear. He has missed the way she feels against him, the softness of her lips, the gentle sighs she makes that are muted by his mouth.

He feels the energy of the Anchor between them. It will kill her; she was not made to hold such power. His palm shifts from her back to the exposed skin of her arm, stroking over the cool, soft skin.

He breaks away, only far enough that he might rest his brow against hers. Minutes pass as he finds comfort in the feeling of her embrace for a final time. A hand against her jaw, in her hair. Her fingers weaved together against the back of his neck. Steady breathing the only sound passing between them.

_My love…_

A flash of blue lights up his eyes. He allows himself one last kiss, right where the _Vallaslin_ once marked her forehead.

_I will never forget you._


	33. Chapter 33

_zugzwang_

_-n. a situation [in chess] in which a player is limited to moves that cost pieces or have a damaging positional effect_

He doesn’t know how he makes it through the eluvian.

His cheeks are damp, burning from the tears rolling down them.

He clutches a hand to his face. Never has he wept so violently in all his long life. But it is not enough. Tears cannot fully justify the pain he feels.

_You have done this to yourself, Dread Wolf._

His sobbing only increases, the more he allows it to, his entire body now shaking with the effort of it. There is no one to hear him, no one to comfort him. Just the endless sound of his own pathetic whimpers and laboured breathing.

He cannot hold his own body up anymore. He crumbles to the ground, knees impacting with the ground below him. One hand catches him before he collapses completely.

He screams.

Over.

And over.

And over.

Until his lungs are raw and he has exhausted himself.

Then all he is left with is the silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...


	34. Chapter 34

_vulnerary_

_-a. used to promote the healing of wounds, n. a remedy for wounds_

‘Why is it, right, that every time you wander off with Ol’ Droopy-Ears – no, sorry, Fen-hal-arsehat – that you lose something on the way back?’

Michal’s ears twitch, but she doesn’t look up at Sera.

She had been dragged from her bed by the other elf, where she had hoped to spend more time sleeping off the trauma of the past few days. Sera said that that was dragon crap, and promptly pulled her to the tavern in the outer grounds of the Winter Palace. So far they had sat in relative silence.

She could sense the other elf’s impatience. Sera would fidget – tapping her fingers on the table, sighing over dramatically, rolling her eyes – but Michal remained indifferent.

She is still too focused on the stump that a day ago had been her left arm. If she closes her eyes – concentrates hard enough - she can feel her fingers clenching and stretching, ready to conjure up her mana. However, when she dares to look, she sees what she has lost and the illusion is shattered.

‘Hello-o, earth to Quizzy!’

Michal’s jaw tightens. She is not Inquisitor anymore. Just another elf. An elf with no clan, no home and no arm. Sera will keep asking more questions if she does not respond soon.

‘What do you mean?’ Michal finally says quietly, glancing across at Sera with weary eyes.

‘Well,’ Sera licks her lips, ‘you went through that stupid magic mirror and came back without an arm. You went off to the arse-end of Crestwood and came back with all your Elfy shit gone…’ Sera bites her bottom lip into a devilish smirk. ‘And you went off at that party and lost your virginity so…’

Michal finally perks up and thuds Sera hard in the shoulder with her fist. Her friend yelps, reeling back, but a grin has spread across her face.

‘Finally!’ Sera is laughing, raising her drink to her lips for a congratulatory sip. ‘Was wondering how long it would take you to wake up.’

* 

‘Darling, I refuse to let you look a state.’

Michal sits uselessly on the edge of the plush accent chair in her temporary quarters. Vivienne, who has been nothing but patient, lays out a beautifully crafted blouse. Simple, understated, just what Michal prefers.

‘You will look splendid in this.’

Michal had been astounded to find Vivienne at her door, accompanied by a servant. Before she could say no, the servant had placed a sizeable trunk in her quarters, before Vivienne had started laying out its contents. Michal supposed it was the elegant mage’s way of helping.

‘Now, I know you must be feeling self conscious with the condition of things as they are.’ Vivienne drew out another shirt, a beautiful shade of crimson and already altered to accommodate her amputated limb. ‘So all you have to do is make sure everyone is distracted by how wonderful you look.’

Vivienne approaches her, one gliding step after another and guides Michal to stand. She holds the shirt up, aligning it with her shoulder. A twinkling smile graces the mage’s features. ‘Perfect.’ She says it so confidently, Michal, for a second, genuinely believes her.

Gentle fingers catch the underside of Michal’s chin, lifting her eyes to meet Vivienne’s properly.

‘You may no longer be Inquisitor, my dear, but you can still command a room.’

* 

‘Who would have thought Chuckles was an Elven god?’

Michal turns to Varric, pursing her lips. She wishes people would stop talking about him. The dwarf notes her expression and raises his hands in mock defense.

‘Sorry, sorry.’ He looks out across the courtyard, at the crystalline waters of the fountain. ‘I don’t need to be told twice about how shit this whole heart break thing is.’

He pats a reassuring hand on her shoulder. It’s a small comfort. ‘You’re always welcome in Kirkwall, Moonbeam.’

*

‘My friend, I am so sorry.’ 

Cassandra looks resplendent, yet uncomfortable in her robes. This is a woman used to practical clothing, not garbs for ceremony and appearance. She sits down beside Michal on the steps where they had met before. 

The elf shrugs uselessly.

‘If there is anything I can do…’ The Divine’s voice trails off, because they both know there is no power in Thedas that can change what has already been done.

‘Just know that if you need me, I will always be here.’

*

‘Me and the lads will track ‘im down for ya’, boss.’

Michal finds herself smirking at Bull’s honesty. She hasn’t smiled in days and her cheeks becomes sore from the slightest pull.

‘Yeah,’ Krem chips in. ‘I’ll show the bastard what for!’

If only it were that easy, Michal thinks to herself, but she appreciates the sentiment either way.

Bull nudges her as gently as he can in the shoulder, which is still pretty forceful by normal standards. ‘Now you’re out of the job, you could always join me the Chargers. We could use a mage with some killer scars. Helps with the intimidation.’ The Qunari winks and Michal smiles again. Although she is not much of a mage anymore if she cannot even hold a staff.

‘Just something to think about, boss.’ 

* 

‘Now I know you won’t be able to see this handsome face every day, so I made you this.’

Dorian holds out a crystal, one of which Michal has never seen the like of before. It glimmers in the light, although she can see a natural shine within that could only be that of magic.

‘If you ever need to talk – and lets be honest, you _definitely_ need me – all you need do is call. 

She allows him to loop the pendant over her head. The weight of the crystal settles against her sternum, the metal chain cold against the back of her neck. 

‘Fashionable and practical,’ Dorian nods. ‘Just like me, don’t you think?’

Michal chuckles, inspecting the jewel closer. ‘Definitely.’

*

Michal watches as her friends depart one by one.

Dorian is the first to go, begrudgingly she might add. Cullen and Blackwall depart next, with Cullen’s Mabari following closely at his heels. They are both men with a new purpose in life now.

Bull and the Chargers are the loudest when they leave, not that she would expect anything less. Cole and Maryden almost go unnoticed, strolling and traveling hand in hand. 

Varric leaves with Josephine. They’re both travelling to the docks so it makes sense for them to go together. Vivienne and Leliana are staying a while longer; there are things to discuss with the new Divine and much to be organised to aid Thedas and the changing tides of power. 

Sera sidles up alongside Michal. For a second she is quiet, until she follows Michal's gaze and spots the figures growing smaller and smaller in the distance. She makes a noise akin to a sighing horse. ‘You better not get all mopey on me.’

Michal frowns. If she had an arm she would have shoved her friend.

‘Come on. Times a wasting.’ Sera is already bracing herself to leave. ‘Besides, Widdle’s got an idea for that new arm of yours.’


End file.
